Zero Requiem
by Halt.CPM
Summary: Lelouch dreamed about the past glories of his Valyrian family, when they'd held great keeps and their fleets ruled the Narrow Sea. But some nights, he dreamed of a life that wasn't his. He dreamed of an empire, war, and tyranny. Most of all, Lelouch Velaryon dreamed of revolution. (Lelouch from Code Geass inserted into ASOIAF, set in the War of the Ninepenny Kings era).
1. Tides Take You

**Chapter 1: Tides Take You**

The boy dreamed of Empire. Knights clad in giant's armor and dromonds that sailed star and sky. Armies of men beyond count; cohorts of every race and stripe. He dreamed of Revolution: a noble end through wicked means. Though the Seven blessed their crusade with victory, they punished his deeds with death.

It was just. Necessary.

He'd seen other things too; learned different truths. Words to stir the hearts of men and women. Showmanship, but also the cold truth of sacrifice and wars waged without steel.

"_It is naught but dreams, Lelouch,_" Maester Banneth had said.

Yet, for all the links Maester Banneth possessed, valyrian steel could not be counted among them.

His was the blood of kings and emperors twice over. Targaryen blood, though he bore the name Velaryon, and Britannian blood though he bore the name of his mother. Blood was power, beyond the grasp of ordinary men.

Lelouch Velaryon was a dragon, and so were his dreams.

**-ZeroRequiem-**

"No worthy seat for the blood of old Valyria," Lelouch said as they rode.

Castle Driftmark was no homely home. The oft-salted walls were damp, dark, and far too small to contain his ambitions. There, he was a mere figurehead there for his father's regents. Lelouch leapt at every opportunity to be away, and if one could not be found, he'd _make_ one.

Donnall looked back at the lowering portcullis, marred by spots of an ugly, creeping orange, and offered a nod in response. "As you say, Cousin, but what would you have your lord father do? Have the walls scrubbed each time the high tide floods us? It would cost a small fortune."

"It was not so long ago that our wealth was greater than the Lannisters," Lelouch said as their horses trotted into the town of Hull, just outside the walls of Driftmark castle.

"Not since the time of the Sea Snake and Spicetown," Donnall said.

"A hun-"

"-hundred and twenty eight years since," Donnall said, rolling his purple eyes. "You have said oh so many times."

"The truth must be said," Lelouch grumbled, "as many times as it takes to be acknowledged."

Donnall smirked. "Where was this conviction last night when the cook asked who'd taken half his pie?"

"Not all truths are equal," Lelouch said, nudging his horse Seasmoke with his leg to take the left fork, heading further inland and away from the rows of hulls anchored below the castle.

"Ha! So tell me of this master plan of yours?" Donnall asked.

"I would not bother with Castle Driftmark. It would take too much coin and solve nothing. Instead, we ought to rebuild High Tide."

Donnall stared at him. "Too much coin, yet you'd spend even more refurbishing that charred ruin?"

"It is a solution which will not be undone by the coming of the next tide," Lelouch said as a busy thoroughfare running through the middle of Hull came to a respectful halt, just to let them cross.

"All very good to speak of what we _ought_ to do, but what _can _we do? Even with the wealth our trade fleets bring, rebuilding High Tide is no small matter. We would need stone and wood and men, not the fineries of Essos and the Jade Sea," Donnall said.

"It is the nature of trade," Lelouch said matter-of-factly, "to exchange what is possessed for what is required. Massey's Hook has plenty of stone, and the Wendwater Woods could provide us all the timber we'd need."

"You've given this thought."

Lelouch shrugged. "Some. I have not finished thinking it through." As punishment for the Sea Snake's part in the Dance of the Dragons, Cregan Stark had revoked their right to rebuild High Tide. It did not last according to Maester Banneth, for the Oakenfist's voyages won him many honors and the decree was overturned in time.

But they had not acted on it and it was many years between then and now. Had the opportunity passed them by?

The wind shifted and their noses wrinkled at the odor it brought. Hull had not completely forgotten its roots as a trio of modest fishing villages who'd grown together when House Velaryon became wealthy under Corlys the Sea Snake. Lelouch's father had remarked once that the stench of fish was a welcome one after visiting King's Landing.

_How much viler it must be then_, Lelouch wondered.

Three men-at-arms were waiting for them in the marketplace, taking the reins of their horses. The third man carried the flag of House Velaryon.

"Why is it you spend so much time here listening to merchant babble?" Donnall asked as they dismounted. "It isn't proper for a lord to mingle with his lessers."

"Neither is it strictly proper for a lord to be accompanied by a bastard, yet here we are," Lelouch said, huffing aside a strand of black hair that blocked his vision.

"You and I both know no one else would bear your peculiarities."

"Alarra adores me."

"Your sister is twelve. She'll tire of you with a few more namedays," Donnall said.

Lelouch waved his hand. "A treasonous thought."

The baker hugged an armful of loaves outside his bakery. "Good tidings, m'lords."

"That's more bread than usual, Stuar," Lelouch said, counting out four stags from his purse. For that many, the price must have dropped from fifteen coppers to twelve. It wasn't likely it would go lower than that given winter had yet to end.

"A cog from Oldtown bound for Pentos docked to sell us the Reach's surplus, Lord Lelouch," Stuar said, handing the bread off to the Velaryon guard that stepped forward.

_Corwyn has not sent us a letter in some time, _Lelouch thought, handing the baker his payment.

"Seven blessings to you, m'lord. Your silver has spared my children from the worst of winter. If there's anything I can ever do for you..."

"Do you want to know why I patronize you?" Lelouch asked, and stepped so close he could pick out the specks of flour from the man's clothes. "Because even half-starved and freezing, you're honest enough not to cheat me. Stay that way, and we can continue as we are for however many winters come." He turned back to his men. "To the wharves."

"So for all of your copper counting these past five years of winter," Donnall asked, "how much coin do you actually have left?"

"I'll not have a stag to my name by winter's end." Maester Banneth had found no fault with his meticulous calculations, even praising him for considering potential volatilities in price.

Donnall's face twisted. "Then what was this all for?"

"A kind hand in troubled times is paid back sevenfold," Lelouch said.

Donnall scoffed. "Spare me the septa's lectures. Giving alms is all well and good, but not to this extent."

"What better use is there for my coin?" Lelouch asked. "I eat better than any soul on this island and sleep in relative comfort. My needs are met."

"Well, if you're so eager to part with them, you could hand them to me next time," Donnall grumbled.

"You already tolerate me," Lelouch said, nodding towards the growing tail of children they were picking up. "It's them I need to like me."

"The children?"

"Hughes, you may begin," Lelouch said as they entered within bowshot of the wharves.

"Yes, my lord." The man planted the Velaryon banner deep into the dirt, and the children descended on them like a swarm of locusts.

"What do you see, Donnall?" Lelouch asked.

"Our flag, children, bread."

"What else?"

Donnall glanced at him, then swept his eyes through the pier, not far from where they stood. "Blackwater Bay, ships and seamen, and more fish than I care to."

"Seamen," Lelouch repeated. "How many of them do you suppose have children?"

Donnall frowned. "I couldn't say."

"Mayhaps half, my lord," Hughes offered.

"Thank you, Hughes," Lelouch said, and turned to his cousin. "Half… can you imagine?"

"So this is about feeding men sworn to your lord father?"

"If that was all, what need would I have for this display?" Lelouch asked.

Something seemed to click in Donnall's head, for his eyes narrowed. "This is about being _seen_."

"There may be hope for that brain of yours after all," Lelouch said, smiling.

"To what end?"

"What do you think?"

Donnall groaned. "Will you ever just answer my questions?"

"Swords and ships are not the only weapons of the world. Coin and bread and reputation matter just as much," Lelouch said. "The seahorse brings food in hard times and feeds your children. The Velaryons look out for the smallfolk. The young Velaryon _cares_. If this act buys me the loyalty of even a tenth of those here, I dare you to find a merchant who could offer so much for so little."

Donnall fell silent. After a few minutes of contemplation, he said, "If you spent half as much time with Ser Morren as you did thinking, mayhaps I wouldn't whip you so often in the training yard."

Lelouch scoffed. "But if I took your small victories away from you, what would you have left?"

Donnall snorted. "I would leave you eating dust six out of seven bouts even if you tried."

"That's why I don't bother."

"So I can win all seven bouts then? You're too kind to me, Cousin," Donnall said. "You won't become a knight by reading books and haggling like a fisherwife. Glory is earned through combat."

"I am content just to have my orders obeyed; I'll leave the glory of butchery to the likes of you," Lelouch said. He squinted as he spotted their sigil fluttering out at sea. Five ships made for a significant force relative to the Driftmark Fleet, but no such party had been sent out on patrol so recently. That left… "The _Season of Tides_?"

Donnall's shoulders went rigid. "I thought he wouldn't be back for a few weeks yet," he murmured.

Even with fair winds and fairer tides, a journey to Volantis could not be done so quickly. "They must have suffered a setback. The narrow sea makes rough waves in the winter," Lelouch said.

"The winter has not been harsh," Donnall said.

"Warm winters make for the worst storms," Lelouch said. "Hughes, send word to the castle that my uncle is arriving."

"No, I should go. I'll be faster on Oakfoot," Donnall said, already mounting his horse.

"Are you certain?" Lelouch asked. "Uncle Adamm will want to see his child."

"Then he'll send for Kiren," Donnall said. "I'm just his bastard. Lady Eunice wouldn't approve if I stayed."

"Aunt Eunice doesn't approve even when you do exactly as she asks you to." Lelouch sighed. "But if you are set on this, I won't stop you."

Donnall was long gone when the _Season of Tides _and its escorts docked. Adamm Velaryon shared a few words with Bluebeard and a pale-skinned beauty, before sauntering down the gangplank. His violet eyes, a hue richer than the finest Tyroshi dyes, locked with his own.

"Uncle, welcome home! You're back earlier than we expected," Lelouch said.

"We had to turn back at Lys," Uncle said, eyeing him up and down. "You've grown taller. How old are you now?"

"I'll be fifteen soon enough."

Uncle cracked a smile. "Aye, I suppose you are. Nearly old enough to wed, or to captain a ship," he said pointedly.

"Neither Father nor Mother have mentioned their plans for me, much as I wish it were otherwise," Lelouch said. "But if I could choose it, I would sail the narrow sea and Essos. See the Titan of Braavos and the Long Bridge of Volantis and the other wonders of man."

"No dreams of earning the favor of fair maidens?" Uncle Adamm asked.

"I am the heir of Driftmark. Knighthood or not, my father will arrange a match for me, as his father did for him, and his before him."

Uncle Adamm frowned, and Lelouch could not help but see the truth of Donnall's parentage, no matter the protests of all involved.

"You disapprove, but it is the truth I have made peace with," Lelouch said. "I am not so young to be blinded by dreams of marrying for love." _Nor_, he thought, _will I shirk my duty_.

"Only by dreams of travel and far off lands."

"I am a Velaryon," Lelouch said, puffing his chest. "Travel sings in our blood, and clings to our bones. The Sea Snake and Oakenfist both had their voyages. Mayaps I shall surpass them both, for have we not treated with both sides of the narrow sea for a thousand years?"

"Aye," Uncle said, a wistful look entering his eyes. He sighed. "We should head for the castle. Best not to keep family waiting."

Mother had assembled what family remained on the island by the time they passed under the castle's walls and into the courtyard. His sister squealed as they arrived, favoring them both with a warm hug and a bubbly smile to Septa Kailsey's disapproval. Kiren, his cousin, curtseyed to textbook perfection, and only after did she pester her father with questions about his voyage.

Lelouch felt Donnall's absence keenly in the midst of kin. The Velaryons shared the purple eyes of old Valyria, but while his absent brother and sister and trueborn cousin were all silver-haired like the dragonlords, he and Donnall had received tufts of black from their mothers. Granted, Lelouch's was a lighter shade, and Donnall did not quite have the pointed chin Lelouch had, but still.

Aunt Eunice never permitted Donnall to greet his father after docking, and though Mother treated Donnall better than most bastards, she valued peace with her good-sister too.

"Be welcome in Castle Driftmark, my good-brother," Mother said once Alarra and Kiren quieted down some.

"How fares my brother, Alysanne?" Uncle Adamm asked.

"Poorly. Father is stubborn as ever." Lelouch scowled. "Though the very air of King's Landing poisons him, he will not relinquish his post on the small council."

"He'll return soon enough for Lelouch's name day," Mother said, then turned on Lelouch with a chiding tone. "The master of ships is our rightful post. We have a duty to uphold."

"The Velaryons have steered the Royal Navy since Aegon the Conqueror," Kiren added.

"Not always," Lelouch said, "but more often than not."

Uncle turned his head from side to side. "It is good to see all of you, truly, but where is my lady wife?"

"Eunice is in her bedchambers." A worried frown touched Mother's lips. "She was feeling ill this morning."

A dark look flashed on Uncle's face before he could smother it. Blink and you might miss it, but Lelouch had spent a lifetime wearing masks. His uncle was plain as day to him.

"That sounds about right," Uncle said.

**-ZeroRequiem-**

Madness and greatness were two sides of the same coin. Every time Lelouch Velaryon slept, the gods tossed a coin in the air and he held his breath to see how it landed.

That night he dreamt of masterworks. Rivers crafted by men. Devices that birthed books in days instead of years. Thundersticks and smoke. Harnessed lightning. A world web through which the sum of all knowledge flowed.

Not all dreams were _useful_.

He could not even begin to guess how any of these masterworks could be made or what principles they operated on. His instincts told him it was no magic of ancient Valyria, but from all that he could grasp, it might as well be.

Perhaps if he could speak to the giant spider that spun the world web, there might've been something to these ideas that could help his people… alas, it would not do to dwell on hopeless endeavors.

Lelouch was no fool to be blinded by every dream or possibility. He was a dragon. He was the master of his own mind.

**-ZeroRequiem-**

_I'm going to murder Uncle for this_, Lelouch decided, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. He had been dragged from bed at an ungodly hour and told to saddle his horse. They reached the Mouse House, a palatial manse overlooking the harbor of Hull just as the sun was starting to shoot its light into their eyes.

"I was going to wait 'til your nameday, but I may as well give you your gift now," Uncle said.

"I think I would have preferred that," Lelouch said.

"You're still young. A few hours less sleep and an early morning trot won't kill you."

Lelouch glared. "It'll kill _someone_."

They stopped beside a post and tied their horses to it. Lelouch took a moment to appreciate the building of sentinel pine, whose solemn watch over the town had not ended despite its age. Fair Marilda of Hull, the mother of Alyn the Oakenfist, had them shipped from the Wendwater Woods during the Lysene Spring, and it continued to house those of their blood to this day.

Bluebeard opened the door for them without their having to knock.

Uncle took off his dusty boot before stepping inside, and Lelouch followed suit. "Moreo, bring the thing here," Uncle said.

Bluebeard nodded and returned with a splendid box in his hands depicting scenes from the Century of Blood. Inside it was a six-sided board, eleven tiles long as its widest. A host of pieces carved from ivory and onyx stood at either side.

"What is it?" Lelouch asked, lifting up a piece with a crown.

"They call this game cyvasse, my lord." Lelouch looked up at the accented feminine voice. The woman from the ship was here. Up close, he could see her eyes, bluer than a sailor's sky. "And you hold the black king."

Uncle grinned. "This is Mysaria. She will teach you the game."

"Can't you do that, Uncle?" Lelouch asked, sparing the Essosi woman a look. The last time a Mysaria from Lys had come to the Seven Kingdoms, the dragons danced. Oh, Lady Misery was not wholly to blame for it, but as a mistress of whispers to the blacks, she'd certainly played her part.

"Don't know how to play," Uncle said. "She doesn't bite."

"Never too hard anyway," Mysaria said, showing a bit of teeth and offering them a sultry smile. "Shall we begin, my lord?"

"I will play black," Lelouch said. It felt indescribably _right _to him.

Mysaria knitted her brows. "The colors do not mean much beyond distinction, my lord. The first move is decided by whoever's king is closest to the centermost tile."

"Nevertheless, I will play black."

"As you wish. We begin with setup. There are five tiles you may place on your side of the board: Mountain, river, hill, forest, and grassland..."

The game began.

"You may have the first move," Lelouch said, eyeing her arrangement.

She tapped his king in the fortress on the third rank with a slender finger. "I must caution you. In Lys, the finest boardmasters always prefer to move first, else keep their king further back."

"Have you never heard the saying 'never interrupt your enemy when he is making a mistake'?"

"It is a poor teacher that keeps silent to errs," Mysaria said.

"Commendable," Lelouch said, "but please, play first."

Her heavy horse charged two hexes on the right flank, resting atop the sickle token of his rabble. "Second, it is not wise to split your pieces so." Again she moved the heavy horse another two hexes to the side, and removed from play two of his sickles, separate from his main host.

"In truth, I have lost little and less." His catapult on a hill loosed three tiles away. "A most worthy trade."

Then her dragon soared, ignoring the mountain and rivers to reach within spitting distance of his catapult. Dragons could move as far as a catapult's range, yet catapults could not loose twice in two turns. The piece would surely be lost next turn. "It is said when you lose a catapult, half your board is set aflame, for what might defy a dragon save another?" she asked.

"I had not known the dragon could fly over mountains." Lelouch frowned, and considered the state of the board. He brought his own dragon three tiles away from hers to check its advance, though it'd cost him both spears and crossbows. His light horse might yet live, if she chose not take it first.

Mysaria was not in the mood for mercy.

The capture of seven pieces in as many turns made her cocky, too certain in a victory yet earned. He was calm despite losing a third of his army, for such disparities birthed the greatest of victories.

The king was all that mattered. All others were the means, not the end.

While her dragon finished feasting, Lelouch prepared for the next phase. One heavy horse was pulled to the very back of the board, his last light horse hugged the leftmost edge, and the rest of his pieces occupied the hills and banks by the river.

She attacked, letting her rabble bear the brunt of his volleys while securing purchase for her horse, spears, and elephant.

Cyvasse was foreign, yet familiar. The pieces and board were different, the rules were different, but the principles? The principles of war never changed. Space, time, and force: the master of these elements, mastered the board.

The fight at the riverbanks was grim business, but his line held when finally he allowed his light horse to smash both her crossbows by the river. That, a dragon, and a catapult remained.

An elephant and catapult still guarded her king. Mysaria still held the greater force.

Yet, how many of those mattered? One catapult devoid of foes, parked in a space of diminished influence. Rabble that ambled by her dragon; adrift, purposeless, and impotent.

Power was only so when it could be directed like a sword's point.

His counterattack began by moving his king.

"A strange choice," she said. "It is safer in the fortress than outside."

"If the king does not lead, how can he expect his subordinates to follow?"

She pushed her lonely catapult forward and he sent his heavy horse outside the sphere of his dragon, tempting her dragon further south. Mysaria took it without sparing the board another thought.

Greed is ever the downfall of men.

His dragon flew north, putting it in striking range of her elephant. Her eyes narrowed, and she flew her dragon towards his king, forced to stop just out of his catapults range.

Dragon took elephant, catapult took dragon. Then his light horse charged, jumping three steps then two and the Lyseni realized the trap she had sprung.

Mysaria moved her dragon in desperation, and found its reach lacking by one tile.

"Morghulis," Lelouch declared as his light horse descended on her catapult, and threatened her king, "and coincidentally, death in two. Another round?"

Mysaria bowed her head slightly. "I have nothing left to teach you, honored lord. I know only of the one form."

"I will be the judge of that." Lelouch leaned forward, steepling his fingers. "There are other ways to play?"

"Hundreds, it is said. The Volantene parlors make new forms daily as it strikes their liking and certain Magisters of Myr are known to play the weaker board for greater odds in a wager. All that is needed is for two to agree."

Lelouch set aside two of his six sickle tokens. When possible, faith ought not be placed in rabble for warcraft. "To keep it interesting then."

**-ZeroRequiem-**

The patriarch of their house sat on the Driftwood Throne. Legends say it was a gift from the Merling King, and while Lelouch could not verify the truth of that tale, the ancient airs about it were authentic. He could spot spots of blackened wood and char from where he sat—a reminder of their ignoble defeat at the Battle of Gullet.

Spicetown sacked. High Tide _razed_.

Father's chair would have burned too, if not for the valiant efforts of a Goodchair, whose grandson Ser Derreck now raised a glass in honor of Lelouch's nameday.

"A fine son for a fine lord!"

"Hear, hear!"

Lord Jaron Velaryon pushed himself up with his cane, and silenced the hall with that act. "Good sers, my eldest son was born in the heart of winter. It seems fitting to me that _this_ winter heralds a new start for him."

"It is traditional that a Velaryon sets sail of his fifteenth nameday. My grandfather did it, my father did it, and so I too shall embark on an expedition of my choosing," Lelouch said as a round of cheers broke out. He raised his glass of watered white, a sour Riverland bottle. "I will bring honor to my house, glory to my men, and riches to our women!"

"Seahorse! Seahorse!"

"The old, the true, the brave!"

"The Young Velaryon!"

Pretty words and empty gestures, but necessary ones. If he wanted to meet even half of his ambitions, he'd need men of sword, shield, and sail. Besides, words were free, loyalty wasn't. In the days to come, he'd need these same men to join his voyage and captain his squadrons.

That night he spoke with his parents.

"Fine words, my boy," Father said. "So where shall it be? Volantis like your grandfather? Braavos like me?"

"No, not Essos. I think it fitting that my maiden voyage be to family," Lelouch said, tilting his head towards his aunt and his mother. "First, to Waterflow Keep, then to Evenfall Hall. Perhaps to Sunspear or the Arbor, to restock our cellars with some proper vintage, and to the Hightowers as well."

Father steepled his fingers. "I would hear your reasons."

"We cannot be the Lords of Tide without ships," Lelouch said, "and those require wood. Our stores are running low and the Wendwaters could rectify that. They have the kingswood and their own vast forests to draw from, and a river to move timber quickly."

"The Brunes have wood, and are closer to Driftmark. Why not them?" Father asked, staring him down.

"They are not family. It is easier to strengthen ties than to make new ones," Lelouch said. "I had hoped to bring Aunt Eunice and Kiren with me."

"Not your uncle or Donnall?"

"It wouldn't be politic. They may join me for the rest of the expedition, but not at Waterflow Keep."

Father nodded. "And Tarth?"

"Mother's family. Plus, if we should ever need allies to fight pirates in the Stepstones, House Tarth would be the natural choice. As for Oldtown, does my brother not squire there? I would not let him grow so distant from us. The other stops involve Great Houses we might profit from through trade, but are not vital," Lelouch said.

Father smiled. Jaron Velaryon _did not _smile. "Finally, our son speaks sense."

_I've always spoken sense! _Lelouch bit his tongue, tasting warm copper.

Mother slapped his father's arm. "Don't be like that, Jaron. He was just a boy when he spoke of civilizing Sothoryos and making Sarnor great again."

"Your aunt Eunice and Kiren will join you to Wendwater," Father continued with a smile, "and your uncle and his bastard afterwards."

"You approve?" Lelouch asked.

Father stood. "Yes. Do not disappoint me."


	2. Where It Flows

**Chapter 2: Where It Flows**

The boy dreamed of Geas; obligations, prohibitions, and oaths imposed. Ought the father to exile his son of ten? Should the mother leave her child behind? Is the ruler exempt from the plight of the ruled?

Must the child not yearn for the world as it could be?

A knight's honor required he do not evil, but what of evil you cannot defeat by just means? Do you stain your hands with evil? Or do you remain steadfastly just and righteous even if it means surrendering to evil?

He dreamt of oaths exchanged. Blood for victory; war for peace. Had it meant nothing to his banners? Black Knights and black deeds.

In the end, trust is the wager that ends your life. The heart's whisper is a treacherous knife.

**-ZeroRequiem-**

Lelouch stared at the cotton clouds, running his hands along the coarse taffrails of the _Maidenhull_. "A fine day for Lord Wells."

"Then why so glum, Cousin?" Kiren smirked. "Afraid of my mother's brother?"

"Have you seen what gifts we've brought?" he asked.

"Sweetwater and sourwater," she said.

Lelouch rolled his eyes. "Very clever. Perfumes and bedspirits are not proper gifts to Lord Dylar. I worry we may give insult."

"Then you should have brought something else."

"What, pray tell, should I have brought? Fish oil? Perhaps some snails for his table?" Lelouch ran his hands through his hair. "There is nothing else. I had hoped Uncle's venture would be more substantial."

"Sounds like you're crying over soured milk. It's done with," Kiren said.

"You could show a bit more concern. It's only the future of our house at stake. The House, might I add, that will pay for your dowry."

Kiren snorted. "I pity the woman that weds you. You're broody enough for two people. Shall I look sullen beside you so you'll feel better?"

"Kiren!"

"Eep!"

Aunt Eunice appeared on deck, features schooled into a stern face. "That's no way for you to speak. No pleasant songs are sung for a lady's sharp tongue."

"_Yes_, Mother," Kiren said.

Lelouch interjected as Aunt Eunice's lips parted once more. "You grew up here, Aunt, perhaps you could tell us of these lands?" Much as he enjoyed witnessing Kiren's woe, there'd be no end of opportunities for it later. Now was the season for borrowed knowledge.

They made port at Amblesea, a modest city that straddled the mouth of the Wendwater River. House Creek, the leal vassals of Lord Dylar, received them at Fordholde.

Driftmark had no surplus of stallions, and even if it did, it was still cheaper by far just to rent Creek horse than bring their own for a trip of this distance.

Well, _rent_ wasn't quite the right description for what occurred given no coin changed hands. Far too mercantile a transaction for the tastes of highborn, and many more steps needed in between. Though perhaps there was wisdom to the _ceremony _of it all. When merchants disagreed, contracts were torn. When nobles disagreed, the world was.

The Creeks offered bread and salt and the Velaryons answered with heartfelt thanks. Lelouch praised the valor of their men and the beauty of their daughters. He drank their wine, ate their food, listened to their tales, and laughed or clapped as appropriate. Come the morrow, he presented a gilded hunting knife and a lesser bottle of sweetwater to the Lord and Lady Creek. In turn, the Creeks provided them and their retinue horse and a proper escort through the kingswood.

Kind words and shared meals and tall tales in place of haggling. Essosi goods for Westerosi services.

Between the Velaryon men-at-arms and the Creek knights, there were thirty bodies between Lelouch and the dangers lurking within the kingswood. A formidable force and a dangerous deterrent to any foe of lesser means.

If war broke out, Lelouch mused, a company of mounted men riding hard could make the trip in three days. It took them twice as many days with a carriage, resting at inns in the evening. With an attachment of foot, it might take twice more—thrice with mud and poor weather. The well-trodden dirt trails that passed for roads wouldn't be able to handle the hundreds of feet and hooves.

Finally, _finally_, the seahorse banner arrived at Waterflow Keep.

It was a stout holdfast, situated on the north bank of where the Wendwater branched into two. The treeline was kept at a distance to ensure men on its walls could spot threats from afar. But there was no shortage of trees for siegeworks. No well inside either. A camp could be set upstream, their refuse inflicting ill things on the men inside.

"Continuing southwest would lead us to the kingsroad and Wendwater Bridge," said Aunt Eunice as their party passed through the portcullis.

Unlike with the Creeks, Lelouch offered his gifts on the first night they supped. The Wendwaters were neither so much lesser to be dismissed, nor so much greater to be grovelled before.

"We appreciate the thought behind these," said Lady Haera.

Not fine gifts, not good gifts, not even a "we appreciate these gifts". It was the thought _behind _these gifts that were worthy of even the slightest consideration to her.

Lelouch forced out a smile.

Some men might say it is the thought that matters, as if good intentions and prayers could stand on their own, as if these had ever solved _anything. _Absolute horseshit.

It was the closest thing to a slap in the face she could've offered without crossing the line of social pariah.

He knew it. She knew it. Everyone in the dining hall with half a brain knew it. "You're most welcome, Lady Haera. It's only fitting for the abundant hospitality you've shown us," said Lelouch, quick as you can.

If this bitch wanted to play with the daggers behind smiles, Lelouch was happy to humor her. There was not a game in the world he could not master. Change the board and the pieces; change the rules and the speeches.

War remained the same.

"Nothing could be more appropriate for so _esteemed_ a house as the Velaryon!" Haera said.

"Your honor us too highly, my lady. My family is nothing more than humble servants of House Targaryen. Since the time of my grandfather's grandfather, Corlys the Sea Snake, we have served at the king's pleasure as master of ships and Lord Admiral of the Royal Fleet. I hope to be the seventh of my line to hold this post _unbroken_," Lelouch said. "But that's enough about me, my lady. I'm curious to know more about your family. Your father is Lord Errol of Haystack Hall, is he not?"

"He is," Haera said stiffly, and began another conversation with Aunt Eunice besides her. After all, what did her family have to offer? No posts in the Small Council, no royal marriages, not even ties to their Lord Paramount.

What fine showing after two and a half centuries!

Wordplay was a delicate dance of barbed words veiled behind empty praise. Double meanings and insinuation were your weapons. Never shatter the lie of noble society with visible hostility. Never say anything that could be used to bury you. Never _ever_ back down once you've committed.

Haera aside, one would think the Wendwaters were sevenfold larger by their high voices and higher spirits. Herwyn sang like an angel. Ilyn howled at every joke. Janna held enough stories in her for weeks, and Kiren, youngest of Wendwater blood, soaked it all in like a sponge.

Nothing at all like dour Aunt Eunice. Either island life or Uncle's infidelity had ruined her disposition.

**-ZeroRequiem-**

Ser Rolan Redmoore was the monster-at-arms.

The two-handed greatsword crashed squarely into his shield, and his arm trembled. _Blunted edges, my ass_, Lelouch thought, eyeing the bastard warily as Herwyn and Ilyn hollered from the sides. _Another blow like that will carve my chest in_.

"You know what we—" Redmoore swung wide, "—need?"

"A break?" Lelouch asked.

Redmoore ignored him. "A proper war. Realm's been at peace long as I can remember. Last one we had was the Fourth Blackfyre 'Rebellion', if you can call it that." He spat. "That son of a whore died on me before I could get my sword properly bloodied up. No real war that."

"Peace is good for the realm, ser," Lelouch said.

"Fuck the realm. I'm bored."

Redmoore put a foot forward and began an overhead swing. His shield rose on instinct. _Fake_, Lelouch thought, and though he knew how this maneuver was countered, his body was too weak and too slow to keep up with his mind.

The dirt was soft beneath him. Lelouch blinked and saw Redmoore's grinning face looking down on him. A monster-at-arms neither because he mastered mace, hammer, sword, and fist, nor for his brutish form and lack of morals.

"You alright down there, Seahorse?"

Lelouch nodded.

He let out a breath. "Pity that. Thought I'd have broken a rib or two by now. Up on your feet. We've got plenty of time 'til lunch."

No, Redmoore just enjoyed human misery, and doubly so when he was the cause.

**-ZeroRequiem-**

After lunch, Lord Dylar bid Lelouch to join him in his solar. The Lord Wendwater fixed him with a look, though Lelouch would not break the silence first. "You're here for my wood," Dylar said after a minute of silence. "No need to play coy with. That's all anyone wants."

"As you say, my lord," Lelouch said. "My lord father has given me leave to treat with you on my own."

"That is a great deal of trust for someone so young. He must hold you in high regard."

"I couldn't possibly say," Lelouch said. "Perhaps he wants me to fail so that I might cease pestering him."

Lord Dylar frowned. "No father wants their son to fail. Unfortunately, fail you might." He held up a hand to forestall his protests. "Would that I could, but these woods have become unsafe as of late. A band of thieves and villains calling themselves the Kingswood Brotherhood have taken a liking to my lands. With the conditions as they are, I cannot in good conscience send out my people to cut timber."

"Mere bandits? Surely they'd be no match for against the steel of a knight. Ser Redmoore is blessed by the Warrior, and you have a good retinue of men in your service."

"It's finding these scoundrels that's proven difficult," Dylar said. "They will set themselves upon travellers and melt away into the forest at the first sign of trouble. Men scouring the woods either end up dead, or find nothing but bitter air."

Lelouch leaned into his seat. "You'll find them in due time, I'm sure. A delay in shipment, while unfortunate, would be understandable."

"I have not raised my house by counting my oaks 'fore they've grown, Lelouch. I am no merchant to strike bargains I cannot keep," Dylar said. "When a Wendwater gives his word, it is done. Come heaven or hell."

"If these bandits were to be dealt with…"

Dylar's brows wrinkled. "I cannot guarantee that."

"I beg you to indulge me. If these bandits were to disappear, would there be anything else to hold us back from an agreement, in principle?" Lelouch asked.

"No," Dylar said.

So he only had to catch these outlaws without breaching Lord Dylar's ancient rights as Lord of Wendwater. No razing. No raping. No looting or wanton slaughter of smallfolk.

_At least not by Velaryon men_, Lelouch thought as he exited the solar. "Ser Redmoore," he called out as he spotted the hulking man stalk down the corridor, "how do you feel about violence?"

"Best feeling in the world."

**-ZeroRequiem-**

"Lord Dylar, I thought I might go hunting," Lelouch said. "We don't have game in Driftmark quite like yours."

"Only the king may hunt in the kingswood," Dylar said, "though you're welcome to our own forests."

"Much appreciated, my lord. I will make certain not to kill anything in the kingswood. Perhaps your maester could show me a map of the area? Just so I know where it is safe."

**-ZeroRequiem-**

Kiren crossed her arms and narrowed her eyes at me. "You're up to something."

"When am I not up to something?" Lelouch asked.

"You've never hunted in your life," Kiren said.

"Rabbits and the occasional bird."

"You hate archery."

Lelouch dusted something off his shoulder. "Less than the sword, if I'm being honest. Less chance of getting blood on my clothes."

"I saw you hand the kitchen boy some coppers."

"Yes." Lelouch nodded solemnly. "It's all part of my dastardly plan to poison Lord Dylar's mead. Lord Dylar, whose castle I'm in, whose master-at-arms beats me black and blue each day, whose men outnumber mine own five-to-one, and whose wood I'm trying to purchase. Surely nothing could go wrong with this."

"Lord Dylar doesn't drink mead," Kiren said.

"Oh woe is me. My best laid plans are foiled."

She rolled her eyes. "Just try not to get yourself killed. Before you earn your great fortune that is. Someone has to pay for my wedding dowry."

He put on an offended face. "Is that all I am to you?"

"It's all you're good for, Lelouch."

**-ZeroRequiem-**

"The things I do for my family," Lelouch said with a heavy sigh. He dragged Hughes out of bed before the crack of dawn, dressed in the worst clothes of the kitchen boy. For good measure, he poked a few holes in it with his knife and cut off a sleeve.

"You hate waking up early, my lord," Hughes said.

"Yes, but so do Father's knights."

The guards at the gate stopped them. "Lord Lelouch? Is that you."

"It is," Lelouch said.

The pair of guards shared a look. "Pardon me for asking, my lord, but what are you up to at this hour dressed as you are?"

"Lady Janna's been regaling me with these tales about Fairmeadow Heights. Finest sunrise in Westeros, she claims." Not a whole lie, just that he hadn't been the intended audience. "I thought I'd go see for myself if there was any truth to the matter. As for the clothes, well, I've heard it's quite the hike. Wouldn't be proper to get my fineries dirty so early in the day."

"Will you need an escort, my lord?" the other asked.

"I'm certain it'll be fine. My man Hughes here is quite handy with a spear," Lelouch said.

"But… he's carrying a sword, my lord."

Lelouch glanced at him. "Hmm. So he is. How do you fare with a sword, Hughes?"

"Stick the pointy bit in the other man's soft bits." Hughes grunted. "Will this take much longer? Any more delays and we may very well miss dawn. I'll be cross if I have to do this again on the morrow."

The portcullis rose. "Expect us back by lunch," Lelouch called out. That ought to give them enough of a head start.

Once they passed from sight, Lelouch knelt down to smear some dirt on his face and slipped the knife into his sleeves.

"What's all this for?" Hughes asked.

"To keep them from looking at my eyes. Lots of boys with black hair, not a lot with purple eyes," Lelouch said. "If anyone asks on the road, pat my shoulder and say I'm your son."

Hughes paused. "We're not going to that hill, are we?"

"It's like you don't know me, Hughes."

The Maester had been kind enough to show him where each attack had occurred in the past year. Putting it all down on a map helped cut down the number of villages the bandits could be hiding out at.

The first village they stopped at was a collection of backwater hovels that didn't even know they had a name. A kindly grandmother opened her doors to them for lunch, and wouldn't hear of payment when offered. "We don't oft have visits out here," she said.

"Because of the bandits?" Hughes asked.

She blinked. "Bandits? I dunno nothin' 'bout that. It's cuz there ain't any roads."

They lounged about the village for half an hour before leaving. "You can't fake that kind of honesty and in a village of fifty, a grandmother knows about everything," Lelouch explained. "Plus, I had a look at their feet."

"Their feet?"

"No shoes, not the good kind," he said, wiggling his toes. "It's only sensible to invest in a pair if you're going to do lots of walking, especially if you have the coin for it."

"You sure 'bout that?" Hughes asked. "They might just stash the stags somewhere."

Lelouch snorted. "It's not about the coin, it's about what you can buy with it."

"I don't know, my lord—"

"Someone could hear," Lelouch hissed.

"—it seems like you're putting a lot of trust in that big brain of yours, and I know how that story ends," Hughes finished.

"It's not my brain I trust, it's human nature. Greed is ever the downfall of men, excess ever their bane."

Their next stop was a place called Heides. Thankfully, it had an inn to stay at. Lelouch tugged at Hughes' sleeve. "I'm going to look around the village, _Father_."

"Uh…"

Lelouch glared for a split-second.

"Ahem, just be back before nightfall, Lyam," Hughes said, and went to speak with the innkeep about a room.

_Nice touch with the name_, Lelouch thought as he bounded up to a few boys that looked his sister's age. He was not so tall he could not pass off as a twelve-year-old. "Hullo, I'm Lyam! That's a nice lookin' stick you got there. Know how to use it?" He snatched his own from the ground.

The tallest boy loomed over him. "I am Ser Aegon, the Knight of Sevens! Here to get my wife from you First Men fucks!"

"I am Lyam Stark, King of the North! Hear me roar!"

"Tha's Lannister words, not Stark," "Aegon" said.

"Shut it! Me mum taught me that and I'll whip any o' yuh who say elsewise," Lelouch said, mustering a proper look of indignation.

So it began. He scored a few hits, and let Aegon get his licks in. The other boy was stronger, but lacked the technique to be a real threat if they were serious. Just like that, they were fast friends within the hour and blood brothers before sundown.

"Learned anything?" Hughes asked later when they were alone.

"Plenty," Lelouch said. "Well done getting us a room on the second floor by the way."

"Seemed sensible to me. If we're on the lookout, height lets us see farther and I can barricade the staircase if we're found out."

_If I were paying him, I'd give him a raise_. Lelouch sat down on the bed and put up four fingers. "I've narrowed it down to Blondie, Longlegs, One-Ear, and Split-Lips."

Hughes barred the door. "Oh? How'd you figure that?"

"Blondie and Longlegs have big mouths. Boys like bragging about what their fathers buy. One-Ear still has a bandage on, doesn't look like a clean cut," Lelouch said.

"A battle scar," Hughes said. "And Split-Lips?"

"Best friend of Blondie's dad."

"That's it?"

"If one's in on it, the other is as well," Lelouch said.

"But how can you be sure? These are real people we're about to hurt," Hughes said.

Lelouch sat up. "Yes, thank you for reminding me. I'm well _aware _that the men I point to will die. I'm not sure of _anything_. All of this so far has been guesswork. Educated guesswork, but hardly the evidence Lord Dylar will take seriously."

"We could grab them at night."

"You and me against four grown men? I don't like our odds," Lelouch said. "No, we'll sit tight for two more days."

Hughes curled his lips. "What's happening in two days?"

"Ser Redmoore arrives," Lelouch said.

"So all that talk about a hunt—"

"A ruse," Lelouch said. "We could not be discovered before I'd found someone."

"We're damned lucky then. Three days isn't enough time," Hughes said.

"It is if you know where to look, generally speaking. I charted out where the attacks took place, and figured some ought to live here or one of the other villages we were supposed to visit," Lelouch said. "Ser Redmoore knows our route, and will follow along until he finds us."

"It wasn't a sure thing then?" Hughes glared. "Your father would've had my head if nothing came of this!"

"Father," Lelouch said, "will never hear of this. It's all accounted for. No, it wasn't a sure thing, but on the balance of probabilities? The odds were in our favor. I gambled, and I won. That's life."

Hughes banged his fist against the wall. "That's my life you're gambling with!"

_Trust is the wager that takes your life_. "Hughes… look, I'm sorry alright? I should have told you about the plan."

"Damn right you should have," Hughes said, sitting down.

"I won't risk your life like this again. Not without telling you first at least," Lelouch said. "You deserve that much for all the years we've worked together."

He nodded. "I'm… I'm sorry I lost my temper, my lord. It wasn't my place."

"Bygones. Are we good?"

"I still want to be a knight, don't I?"

"First fight we get into," Lelouch vowed.

**-ZeroRequiem-**

_To defeat evil, I must become a greater evil._

Ser Redmoore came in the light of day atop his dusty charger, just according to plan. With him were the Velaryon retinue, and half the men at Waterflow Keep. They corralled the inhabitants by a well which was also the town center, Lelouch and Hughes included.

Redmoore walked up to them and looked him in the eye.

"M-my father's done nothing wrong, sir! Honest!" Lelouch said.

Redmoore blinked. "Say that again?"

"We're just honest _smallfolk_."

"Right. I'm going to enjoy this." He cracked his neck, then he punched Hughes square in the nose, sending blood flying. "Take him."

"Bastard!" Hughes howled. A pair of men surged forward to grab him.

Redmoore lifted Lelouch by the front of his shirt. Lelouch glanced meaningfully at One-Ear's house and was dropped unceremoniously back to the dirt. "Whose house is that!" Redmoore said, pointing. "Answer me quick, 'fore I put this whole village to the sword for breaking the king's law!"

"It's mine, good ser! I'm just a tailor!" One-Ear said.

"Tailor huh? Fancy clothes you're wearing."

"I make fancy clothes, ser."

"For others to wear," Redmoore said. "Never 'eard of a tailor that wears his own wares. How'd you lose that ear of yours?"

One-Ear didn't answer.

"_Tailor,_" he spat out. "Pig shit. Stay right here. Boy, with me!" Redmoore walked up to the door and kicked it open. Lelouch scurried after him inside and shut the door behind them. "So what was all that for?"

Lelouch walked carefully about, listening to the squeaks with every step. "Lelouch Velaryon was never here, only Lyam No-Name. You found Lelouch Velaryon somewhere in the kingswood. Stopped by this village on the way back, and noticed something odd about the men and decided to investigate."

"No one'll buy that. I have nearly forty men outside who'll say otherwise," Redmoore said, crossing his arms across his chest.

"If you say that's what happened, and I say that's what happened, and my men say that's what happened, then _that_ is what happened, Ser Redmoore. Now, cut this plank up will you?" Lelouch said, stepping aside.

Redmoore drew his sword and carved up the wood. "Well, I'll be. Lots of gold for a tailor."

Lelouch grinned. "We have them by the balls."

"One man, one pair of balls," Redmoore corrected.

"You lack imagination, ser. Show the villagers the sack of gold and say this…"

Redmoore barged out the door, the coins inside the sack jingling loudly. He threw it open on the dirt for everyone to see. "Twenty gold dragons by my count. No tailor I know of earns that much in a year. This whole village doesn't earn that in a year." Redmoore stepped up close to One-Ear and screamed, "I'm a fookin' knight of Lord Wendwater and I don't have ten bleeding dragons to my name!"

He turned his eyes to the rest of them. "Does anyone doubt this man's guilt from the evidence gathered?"

No answer.

"Come on, you thieving scum. Let's see what secrets you'll squeal." He broke under torture in less than an hour and named two more men guilty: Blondie and Split-Lips. They searched Longlegs' home as well, but found nothing to pin on the man after turning it upside down. He was let off with a warning.

Meryl (Blondie) and Dresh (Split-Lips) weren't so lucky. Lelouch had them bound and placed in two other houses, not enough to hear the other, but certainly close enough to hear One-Ear scream. The problem, of course, was that the testimony of a man who'd been tortured wouldn't hold up, and there were Seven knows how many other men in how many other places committing how many other crimes. Another guard dragged Lelouch along and pretended to interrogate them, while he did the real talking.

"That smells delicious," Lelouch said, sniffing around the kitchen. "Is that stew? I love stew. Warm, simple, hearty. And it goes great with rye."

He set the food on the table and sat across Dresh. "You mind if I eat while we talk?"

Dresh scrunched his brows and shook his head. That was no good.

"Hmm, needs some salt. Be right back." Lelouch stood up.

"I've not done nothin', m'lord!" Dresh said.

_There we go_, Lelouch thought, grabbing a small jar from the kitchen table and adding a dash of it in the pottage. "Tasty. Oh, where are my manners. Would you like some of this?"

"No, m'lord."

"More for me, Dresh. That is how you say your name right? I couldn't quite understand Meryl while he was stuffing his face," Lelouch said, taking his time to enjoy the pottage. "Listen, I'm setting down my knife right here so we can talk. Just talk. Nod if you understand?"

Dresh nodded.

"Your best friend in the other house, he mentioned you were the Bride's Knight at his wedding," Lelouch said. He hadn't spoken to the man yet, but it seemed a fair assumption given they were best friends. At Dresh's nod, he continued, "This wedding, when did it take place?"

"Nearly eight years ago," Dresh said.

"Awfully young of them," Lelouch said. "Meryl must've been fifteen at the time?"

"Fourteen and a half," Dresh said, and in a quieter one, "and Lysa was only thirteen."

"Did they marry for love?" Lelouch asked, and knew that they did not. Even smallfolk had their matches arranged by their parents to better their lot in life. Marrying for love was a shared delusion, for lords thought it the privilege of the smallfolk, and the smallfolk thought it the privilege of lords.

Dresh shook his head. "His parents paid a great dowry for her."

"He has a son, doesn't he? Blond, a bit pudgy."

"Jerrik," Dresh said, "and a daughter named Jeyne, after Lysa's mother."

He peered outside the window. "Which one's Jeyne?"

"A wee thing. Brown-haired like Lysa. Used to tell Meryl she had my eyes and nose as a joke." He chuckled.

"You seem like a good man." Lelouch turned to one of the guards. "Cut him loose when we leave."

"Thank you, m'lord!"

"I just hate it when women cry," he muttered loudly. "You should break the news to her, Dresh."

"Pardon, m'lord? What news?" Dresh asked.

"Her husband's facing the gallows. She should have someone to hold her in these regretful times," Lelouch said, and whispered instructions to the guards.

Meryl was next. Lelouch looked him up and down. "Hm."

"Something wrong, m'lord?"

"Your nose is. Eyes too. They're off."

"Off?"

He ignored the question. "Let me be straight with you. I don't need _two_ living men to tell me the same thing when one will do."

"Don't you mean three men?" Meryl asked.

"Oh, One-Ear's a dead man already. He just doesn't know it yet," Lelouch said.

"His name's Erik."

Lelouch scratched his chin. "I don't care to know the name of a dead man."

Another scream.

"You know, there are two types of pain in this world. Useful pain: the thing you can heal and learn from like heartbreak, or a broken arm." Lelouch fixed him with a stare and didn't continue.

"What's the other type?" Meryl asked.

His smile crept up slow. "Useless pain, like poison or a pierced gut. The sort of thing you can't come back from, not unlike Ser Redmoore. Now him, he's a man that enjoys inflicting pain. Loves it more than wine or food or a good lay. An unusual vice. Do you suppose he gets many chances to express it?"

"N-no, m'lord. I can't imagine Lord Wendwater would l-let him."

"I imagine he's gotten very, _very _good at drawing it out. Really get his worth from someone," Lelouch said.

Meryl swallowed.

"It's a cruel world we live in. They have this saying where I'm from: Trust is the wager that ends your life," Lelouch said, stopping by the window. The screaming stopped. "You get so used to the noise and when it stops, the world just feels emptier all of a sudden."

"I know what you're doing," Meryl said, putting on a brave face. "You're tryin' to scare me into confessing!"

Lelouch laughed. "I already have the confession I need. Bring him here by the window."

"Dresh wouldn't say nuthin'," Meryl said.

"Why? Because he was the Bride's Knight at your wedding?" He pointed outside and Meryl's eyes followed the action involuntarily to Lysa and Dresh embracing. "He didn't approve of your marriage to Lysa, and I get the feeling it's not because of his feelings for you."

Meryl's eyes widened.

_The heart's whisper is a treacherous knife. _"I've had a look at the children. Jerrik's the spitting image of you. Strange that Jeyne has her mother's hair, but Dresh's eyes and nose." Lelouch snapped his fingers. "That's what I found off about you. Your daughter doesn't have your eyes and nose." His mouth made an 'O'. "Your daughter's not your daughter, is she?" He gave voice to that most treacherous of beings called the heart.

"Do you suppose he'll marry Lysa once you're gone?" Lelouch asked. "Now Jeyne I know he'll take care of. What about Jerrik though? No man wants to raise his wife's child by another."

"Stop!" he screamed, tears pooling in his eyes. "Stop it. I'll talk. I'll tell you what you want. I'll tell you everything."

"Start with a public confession. Then I want the names of everyone in your brotherhood, where they live, and the worst crimes they've committed."

**-ZeroRequiem-**

"Meryl of Heides, do you confess to the crime of theft?" Redmoore asked.

"I confess to my crimes," Meryl said. "And I name Dresh a thief and a rapist."

"Two witnesses have named your crimes, Dresh. Plus all that silver we found hidden under your bed. Terrible hiding spot, that." Redmoore grinned. "Do any here think the proof insufficient?"

No answer.

"You might earn your lord's mercy still, Dresh. Name your brothers, and you may yet live."

It really was as simple as that. Lord Wendwater joined us soon after and it took three more days to round everyone up. The worst of them, those who'd murdered or raped or harmed a highborn, were hanged without exception.

As for the forty two men guilty only of theft?

"If it were up to me I'd hang the lot of you," Redmoore said, "but Lord Wendwater is merciful. Five among you are to be put to death."

"Will we draw straws, ser?"

"We're in the realm of men, so men will choose. Each man will name a man, and the one named most wins death," Redmoore said. "Be quick about it. You have ten minutes."

Thirty-seven stoned five. Thirty-seven buried five. Thirty-seven were branded for life, the thief's mark on their forehead.

"Now listen here worms," Redmoore said. "We know who you are now. We know where to find you. We know your wives, and your sisters, and your children. If there's trouble, we'll come looking."

"W-what if it's not us, m'lord?"

"We'll come looking anyway, and you'd better have names for us," Redmoore said. "Tell your friends."

The men were in high spirits on the march back. No doubt they'd have to go on fewer patrols if crime dropped.

Redmoore was happy for entirely different reasons. "This is a good week," he said. "Hanged sixteen men, stabbed another three, and watch five get stoned."

"And you've brought peace to Wendwater after a year. Quite the feat," Lelouch said.

"Meh. I can take it or leave it." And he rode off.

"I mean no insult when I say this, but you missed your calling in life heading a mummer's troupe," Lord Dylar said.

"I'm pleased that you think so highly of me, my lord, though I couldn't possibly know what for," Lelouch said.

"If I ordered Redmoore to deal with this, his solution would be to burn down the whole forest and everyone in it." Lord Dylar wiped the sweat off his brow. "He's a blunt tool with no sense for plots and a good killer. That's why he's my master-at-arms and not Mortimer Creek or one of the Glade brothers."

"Well, while I have your ear, Lord Dylar, there's a few things I'd like to discuss," Lelouch said. "I've never seen my aunt Eunice smile so many time in a single day until we arrived. Mayhaps some more time here will do her some good? I admit, life on Driftmark can get rather dreary."

Dylar bobbed his head. "It would give her a chance to get to know her other nephews and nieces."

"Family _is _important," Lelouch said. "And it'd be cruel and unusual to leave Aunt Eunice here without Kiren. She is her daughter." Uncle's family seemed truly happy here, and it'd spare them the pain of his indiscretions_. _If it stopped Father from hearing what had occurred, well, that was just secondary.

"Agreed."

"Now, I can't help but notice there's a curious lack of criminals now. Perhaps we could return to our previous discussion? After all, when a Wendwater gives his word, it is done." Lelouch said.

"Come heaven or hell. Aye, you'll have your wood. We both know what we both know."

Lelouch tilted his head. "The maesters would call that tautology."

The rest was just terms.

**-ZeroRequiem-**

One last loose end.

Lord Dylar was kind enough to provide him his first shipment of timber. The smallfolk had felled the trees, then tied them together into a raft which they rode out to sea. Lelouch imagined that to a bird, it must look like a giant snake of wood coursing down the Wendwater.

Lelouch turned to address the Velaryon men. "We will speak no more of this past Amblesea. You will tell Father and Mother that we succeeded without incident. Lady Eunice and Lady Kiren wished to spend more time with family, and we obliged. There was no hunt in the kingswood, and I was always at Waterflow Keep or with Lord Dylar."

"What of the bandits?"

"What of them? Ser Redmoore valiantly cleared away the cur, and asked if you might want to join him in breaking some arms in the spirit of friendship," Lelouch said.

"We'd be lying to our Lord," Ser Goodchair said.

"Lie is such an indelicate word, ser. It is an alternative narrative." Lelouch narrowed his eyes. "Do not fool yourselves into thinking you have a choice in this matter. Tell Father of my adventures, and the whole truth will come out. Four knights and five men-at-arms could not keep proper watch over a boy, _while inside a keep_! You should count yourselves lucky if he merely strips you of your lands and titles."

"Not to mention," he continued, "that the whole expedition will be cancelled. There will be no more gold or glory to be had. The way I see it, you can recount how you helped enforce the king's justice to the maidens back home and earn a bit more coin along the way, or you can choose disgrace and exile. Make your choice."

"Choice, my lord?" Ser Goodchair said. "What choice? After all, nothing of note occurred other than your excellent diplomacy."


	3. Rise of the Seahorse

**Chapter 3: Rise of the Seahorse**

The need to see their timber brought ashore gave Lelouch leave to spend the night at Driftmark.

Two letters from Father arrived after dinner. The first formally ratified the pact and its terms with Lord Dylar. Three years they would have wood for gold, with the option to reaffirm it afterwards.

"Alarra, pack your things," Mother said. "You will join your brother on the morrow."

Alarra beamed. "I get to go visit Corwyn? Truly?"

Mother nodded, sparing a smile as her daughter skipped away.

"It is unlike Father to reverse his own decisions. What news?" Lelouch asked.

"The crown prince's eldest son is yet unwed," Mother said. "Your father has recently learned that Prince Aerys inherited King Aegon's _venturing_ spirit."

It was well-known the king had squired for Ser Duncan the Tall in his youth. Of course, the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard was then just a mere hedge knight and their adventures took them all across the Seven Kingdoms. "Father seeks to culture Alarra. Give her some experience in the world, mayhaps give her an edge over other highborn girls when the time comes to woo the prince."

Mother nodded. "You have made your father proud, though he does not say it, Lelouch. He did not expect you would succeed so quickly with Lord Wendwater," Mother said, "and much as I will miss Eunice and Kiren, it was wise of you to let them stay."

"It seemed for the best," Lelouch said.

She hugged him tight. "Whatever will I do with my old self? All my children are soon to leave me and I am left alone on this barren rock!"

"Mother, please, this isn't Dragonstone. We actually do grow crops here." Lelouch hugged her back. "And you are not yet even forty; plenty more years to look forward to."

Mother sniffed.

"We will be back before you know it," Lelouch said. "I promise."

Before he could go to bed, Mother made him swear two oaths before Septa Kailsey, with Uncle Adamm as witness. First, that he not elope with some Dornish harlot. Second, that he bring her knitted wares safely to Oldtown.

As they walked, Uncle Adamm spoke. "You left my daughter at Waterflow Keep, away from family."

"She is not a bastard. Your wife's family is her family too," Lelouch said. "Unless?"

"She is Eunice's get," he said with a grimace. "Still, why did you do it?"

"They chose it for themselves. I did not ask them at the point of a sword, nor are they so weak-willed to bow to my every whim."

"You put the idea in their head. You asked them. I have known you since you were born and you do not do things without purpose," Uncle said.

"I did it to save them a measure of pain," Lelouch said. "You have brought a foreign woman to our home in the guise of teaching me cyvasse. It is a gift I have enjoyed to be sure, but let us not pretend for a second you did not have your own motives."

He bowed his head, whispering, "It was the honorable thing to do. She is with child."

"Which is why," Lelouch said, "you will not bring her on any of our voyages."

"She is not so far along-"

"I will keep your secret, but you must play your part, Uncle. How are we to hide this when you parade her in front of our men? They will notice her sickness, or the growing bulge, and they will _whisper_."

"I… understand."

"We can afford no distractions, not when the future of our house is at stake," Lelouch said.

That night, the boy dreamed of a green-haired witch.

On the morrow, the Velaryon clan departed save for Tarth's trueborn daughter and the unborn daughter of a Lysene whore.

**-ZeroRequiem-**

"See how it's shaped like an anvil?" Lelouch traced the cloud's outline to Alarra. "That means a storm's about to hammer us."

Alarra pouted. "Will that cause delay? I'd hate to miss Corwyn's nameday because of something so drab."

Lelouch turned to Lord Wells in askance.

"We're making good speed, my lord. We should be nestled comfortably in the Straits of Tarth before it causes issue," said Lord Wells of Evendim Ridge.

"Thank you, my lord," Lelouch said.

"Have you ever met Uncle Stephas?" Alarra asked.

He shook his head. "Mother said he visited us once when I was still little, but I don't remember much of him."

"I'm sure he's a good man," Alarra said with a firm nod. "He's our uncle."

Lelouch smiled despite himself. "I'm sure you're right."

Alarra leaned over the taffrails, squinting at a smidgen in the horizon. "I see suns and crescent moons! That must be Evenfall Hall!"

Captain Wells peered through his far-eye. "Lady Alarra speaks truly. House Tarth's sigil flies in the distance."

"It must be beautiful to see the sparkling blue seas from the Sapphire Isle. Mother called it 'striking'," Alarra said.

It was a close thing, but Captain Wells' prediction proved correct in the end. The Spine of Tarth, a series of mountains running down the middle of the island, shielded their fleet of three from the worst of the stormwinds. Without, they may have very well been blown of course or crashed into Shipbreaker's Bay.

A boy no older than eleven with hair like straw and dressed in liveries waited for them to come ashore.

"You must be our cousin Selwyn," Alarra said, bouncing up to him. She hugged him fierce before he could answer. "It's so nice to meet you! I'm Alarra, and over there's my brother Lelouch."

"Ahem, my lord father bids you welcome to Tarth, good cousins," Selwyn said, fidgeting from the contact.

"You'll have to forgive my sister," Lelouch said. "She's been excitable as of late."

Alarra waved him away. "Oh hush. You should be too! We're meeting _family _after all."

"If you would follow me?" Selwyn said.

"Lead the way," Alarra said.

Positioned on top of a hill that gave it a domineering view over the surrounding lowlands, it took a small hike to reach Evenfall Hall. _The serpentine path provides good overlapping fields of fire_, Lelouch noted. With a company of longbowmen on the crenulated walls and three sea-facing towers, any hostile force would suffer heavily while landing, and heavier still taking the high ground. Small wonder Tarth was often seized from the far end of the island.

Lord Stephas Tarth received them with his daughters before the castle gates, as was customary. Selwyn Tarth was, Lelouch realized, the youngest and only son of Lord Stephas' five children.

Alarra tugged at his sleeve as they received bread and salt. "Lelouch, you should give Uncle Stephas the thingie."

He sighed. "Normally I would wait, Lord Stephas, but alas, I am a slave to my young sister's whims."

"She takes after my sister," Lord Stephas said wistfully. "Let us do away with the formality. There is no need for such among kin."

Lelouch brought forward a wooden box. The sun and crescent moons of House Tarth popped out all along the sides of it and on the lid were their house words: How Bright We Shine. It was the work of many months by a grandfather whose grandson he'd been feeding throughout the winter.

Lord Stephas ran a hand along the grain of the box. "What fine craftsmanship," he said, before opening it. Inside rested six brooches - two golden suns for father and son, four silver crescents for the daughters. "I see my sister's hand in this."

"Mother has an eye for picking out jewelry," Lelouch said. "I've always been rather hopeless at it."

"Matters such as this are best left to women," said Lord Stephas. "And I have precious few more capable than Alysanne. Did you know she used to tell our goldsmiths how to work their craft?"

"She still does," Lelouch admitted.

"Ha! Come inside. There'll be plenty of time for tales over mulled wine."

Evenfall Hall was warm, and well-lit, holding the many colored banners of House Tarth's vassals. It reflected his mother's disposition, and Alarra's too truth be told. The differences with Castle Driftmark were stark and Lelouch's heart stirred.

"I could not help but notice your fine ships when we moored, Lord—"

"Call me Uncle," Lord Stephas said.

"—Uncle Stephas," Lelouch continued without missing a beat. "We Velaryons can appreciate, more than most, a proper fleet. The seas yield great bounties, if harnessed properly."

"Aye, they are war galleys of fine make, but I would not call what we possess a fleet. They are too few in number," Lord Stephas said.

Lelouch tilted his head. "Surely you jest, Uncle. I counted at least a score out there. Combined with the might of your vassals, you ought to have twice that number." _About the same as Driftmark_.

"I can count on thirty proper ships to the defence of Tarth," he said. "Perhaps thirty more, with time to arm some merchant vessels."

_So few_, Lelouch thought. Driftmark had its own problems with building up a large fleet. The lack of wood was most crucial, and being thinly peopled a close second. Yet, Tarth was nearly thrice as large as Driftmark, with many glittering lakes and high meadows and shadowed vales. Surely they would have more woods and people to spare?

"It's because of the stormwinds, boy," Lord Stephas said. "The Spine protects the western half of Tarth from harsh weather, but of the eastern half nothing can be said. If the Coldfalls or Highwoods tried, they'd see the storms break them. Half my domain is unfit for shipworks, and the other half won't beggar themselves."

It all came back to coin in the end.

When stormland winds finished singing their song, Selwyn stood. "Good cousins, come join me at the walls."

"Certainly," Alarra said, quick to stand.

"Whatever for?" Lelouch asked, letting his sister drag him along.

"When our forefathers raised this keep, they struggled with a name," Selwyn said. "For what name could capture the beauty that is Tarth? Brightkeep, Jewelstone, the Sapphire Holdfast, all these were considered. But as they spoke, the sun set and all grew quiet at the vision. They named it Evenfall, for they beheld a sight second to none."

"They were wrong though," Selwyn continued. "For they saw only the sunset of a normal day."

They reached the walls. Alarra gasped. The sky was an explosion of color that seeped through the Spine, and the sun itself was framed perfectly by twin peaks.

"The prettiest sunsets come after a storm. See _how bright we shine_."

**-ZeroRequiem-**

"Come on, keep your knees bent!" Uncle hollered as he circled around Donnall and Lelouch, twirling his pretend spear as he went. The ship lurched and Lelouch caught himself before he stumbled. "Footwork! If this were a fight with pirates, you'd be dead twice over."

Not a day since Tarth had passed without spar. Alarra watched them from the side, munching happily on _another_ blood orange that they'd bought while in Plankytown.

Uncle walked forward, and Donnall met his advance with his arming sword and buckler. Lelouch circled to the right, armed with his own staff.

"A pirate that's survived twenty years of hard fighting?" Donnall asked.

"You could be—" Uncle poked high, forcing Donnall to shove the tip away with his buckler, even as he parried a thrust from Lelouch with the butt. "—facing Samarro Saan. Good, you're learning not to let your guard down. Pay attention to weapons, not words."

"I thought you said he was busy buggering the Volantene waters?" Lelouch said.

"He's a _pirate_," Uncle said, repositioning to try and align the two boys relative to himself. It didn't work. "Saan goes where he wants, when he wants. Besides, last I heard of him was from three months past. Saan could be anywhere now."

Then he struck against Lelouch, moving fast and hitting fierce. "Dead, dead, dead," Uncle said, punctuating each word with a harsh jab to his chest. Uncle Adamm was a _cunt_ when without cunt.

_That's going to bruise_, Lelouch thought as he picked himself up.

Donnall did not last much longer, through some maneuver both had lost their weapons, but Uncle had a knife and his cousin did not.

"In a real fight—"

"Ha! My son thinks he knows war, because he's fifteen."

Donnall bristled. "Ser Morren is a deft hand with the sword."

"For fighting on solid ground, his stances and drills will serve you well." Uncle grinned. "This is the sea, and she's a harsh bitch this one. Won't even give you the time of day. What you need now is _application_."

"Spears," Donnall spat, "are a commoner's weapon and knives a brigand's."

Uncle quirked his brow. "You could call a man that."

"You'd call them elsewise?"

"I'd call them alive." Uncle rested his staff against his shoulder. "Single combat is simple: gut the other man before he guts you. The longer your stick, the longer your reach, and the quicker you can kill him. Shall we keep going?"

"Oh, none of that now, Uncle," Alarra said, pointing to the shore. "You've left them enough bruises for today, and besides, we're almost at Oldtown. They have to make themselves presentable."

Towering above all else, the Hightower was visible before the shoreline was. Taller even than the Wall, it protruded the skies, beyond imagination and almost as if in defiance of the gods. Then came the whispers. Lelouch did not know when it began, only that the sound of rushing water was all at once everywhere.

Finally, it came into sight. Situated where the Honeywine River widened into the Bay of Whispering Sound was Oldtown.

"Quite the sight, isn't it?" Uncle said.

"It's easy to see why Lomas Longstrider named it a wonder," Lelouch said, still peering at the Hightower. "Maester Banneth says as many people live here as all the levies of the Seven Kingdoms put together." Four hundred thousand souls—it was a difficult number to truly grasp in one's head. Hull had but a fraction, and Spicetown at its height could not claim half that number.

"King's Landing has more people," Donnall said.

"Aye, but Oldtown is larger and, more importantly, wealthier," Uncle said.

Disembarking by the wharves was an experience in itself. Men of every city could be found here, from Summer Islander tradesmen to YiTish scholars.

"Spices! Cinnamon!"

"Myrish pies! Get your Myrish pies here!"

"Whalebone! Fish oil!"

"Keep together!" Uncle bellowed, and their men-at-arms tightened into a ring around them. "Follow the sights and sounds of this labyrinth too keenly and you'll starve before we can find you again." It was slow work to move against the press of the crowd, but eventually they managed to force a path out of the bustling wharves.

Alarra sniffed. "It smells nicer here than the sweetwater you gave Lord Wendwater," she said with wide eyes. The cobblestone great streets basked in the heady aroma of fruit and flowers. Even the narrowest back alleys smelled more of fresh rain than filth.

And the shops too! Through the windows, Lelouch could see the wares they held, of finer make than any he'd ever seen. That Driftmark made any claim to being a port of trade was a farce.

"Where do we go from here?" Donnall asked as they reached the end of a street that sold only glittering, golden things.

Uncle pointed to the monument that touched the sky. "The Hightower lights the way."

Though they had the wonder to orient themselves with, it didn't make navigating the wynds and crookback streets easy. Several times they entered an alley only to find their path barred by houses or walls. It was only with the directions of a passing guardsman that they made progress.

"Small wonder the Gardener Kings of old could not take the Hightower," Lelouch said as they stood on unadorned black stone that served as a base for the monolithic structure. "Half the army would be lost trying to find a path through the city, and the other half while climbing its steps."

"Brother! Sister! You made it," Corwyn said, running down the steps and accompanied by a broad-chested man. When Lelouch last saw him, Corwyn was a head shorter. It seemed the Hightower had lent his brother some height, for Corwyn was nearly as tall as him despite being two years younger.

"Corwyn!" Alarra squealed as they hugged.

Corwyn turned to his companion. "Ser Leyton, may I introduce my family?"

"Oh I know who these are. The clever one and the sweet one," Leyton said, nodding to Lelouch and Alarra respectively. "That leaves your uncle and his son."

"You'll have to forgive my lord father for not coming himself. The steps can be deceptively difficult for a man his age," Leyton continued. A servant approached with a basket. "Please, be welcome."

_Even the bread and salt here is better, _Lelouch thought while chewing.

After a round of introductions with the Hightower household, Ser Leyton granted Corwyn leave for the afternoon. "There's still plenty of sun out and you've family today. Armor polishing and sword practice can wait."

Oldtown was the gateway to the hinterlands and the vast bounty of the Reach through the Honeywine. A city unlike any other, it housed the Citadel and the Starry Sept and the Bank of Oldtown.

"Anything that exists can be found here. What would you like to see first?" Corwyn asked.

"Perhaps we should just wander. There are many sights to the city that even adrift we ought to come across some interesting spectacles," Lelouch said. "It has been a year and some months since we last saw each other. How is life treating you here?"

"The Hightowers have been kind to me and Ser Leyton must be the finest knight in all the Seven Kingdoms," Corwyn said. "He unhorses every man he jousts with and is without equal in the melee when wielding Vigilance."

"Even greater than Duncan the Tall?" Lelouch asked.

Corwyn looked thoughtful. "Perhaps. All I can say is the Reach has many knights, and I have never seen him beaten. How is our mother?"

"She misses you terribly," Alarra said.

"Which reminds me," Lelouch said, "there are scarves and mittens for you when we get back. Not that I know what you'd use it for. I don't suppose the bite of winter reaches this far south?"

"One hardly notices the cold here," Corwyn said, "but I appreciate the gift anyway. It's comforting to have something from home. What about our father? Has his health improved?"

"He still needed his cane when we saw him last," Lelouch said.

"It must be the airs," Corwyn said. "King's Landing could learn a thing or two about how a city ought to be built."

Lelouch turned to Alarra. "Our brother has been ensnared by the charms of Oldtown and Reachmen dreams. Does he still remember humble Driftmark, I wonder?"

"Driftmark will always be my home," Corwyn said, "but here, the songs come alive. All knights are gallant, all maids are beautiful, and the sun is always shining. I would be a liar if I said I would not miss it when I leave."

"Then I hope I might recreate a glimpse of this place in Driftmark," Lelouch said. Then, he placed a hand on Corwyn's shoulder. "Driftmark is emptier without you, Brother."

"I have missed you too."

Alarra pouted.

Corwyn grinned. "I've missed _both _of you," he amended.

**-ZeroRequiem-**

Lelouch judged the distance to be two hundred and forty yards to the straw target, falling just short of a yew longbow's furthest range.

"Ah, the clever Seahorse," Ser Leyton said, carrying a white bow of weirwood make. "I hope you enjoyed your outing to the city yesterday?"

"Ser Leyton," Lelouch greeted and drew his bow. "The city is a wonderful testament to the long and wise rule of your house. Truly, Oldtown is without equal in the known world."

"You've got a silvertongue on you," Leyton said with a smile.

Lelouch released. _Bull's eye._

"Quite the shot," Leyton said and promptly landed one of his own. "You must be quite the hunter."

"Better than some, worse than others. I must admit, I've only ever hunted small game. Rabbits, birds, and the like. Driftmark does not have the woods for larger prey," Lelouch said, retreating six paces from the target. Loose. Hit.

Leyton matched him step for step. "You are being modest. I know men twice your age who could not shoot half as well as you just did." He loosed, sending the fir shaft straight into his victim's heart.

"It is easier when the thing you're shooting at does not move," Lelouch said. Six more paces. _Two hundred and fifty yards._

Thwack!

"My brother speaks highly of you," Lelouch said as the knight aimed.

"What does he say?"

"That you are unbeaten in the joust and melee," Lelouch said. "He forgot to mention your skill with the bow."

He grinned. "I do not shoot oft in his presence."

"And the tales of chivalry make no mention of knights that can fell a man from two hundred yards."

"That too," Leyton said, before handing him the weirwood bow. "Shall we keep going?"

"I've never handled one of these before," Lelouch said, taking a moment to appreciate its sheen. "Do you consider yourself a betting man?"

"Already trying to part me from my bow?"

"I wouldn't dream of it, ser," Lelouch said, setting himself at three hundred yards. Shooting was more technique than strength, but at this range he'd be straining his muscles. "If I can best you, will you lend me half an hour of your time?"

Leyton arched a brow. "If you make that shot, you can have the full hour."

_Breathe. Compensate for the light south-easterly breeze. Trust your shot… and loose. _

Leyton raised his hands in surrender. "To the victor goes the spoils. I am at your service, Clever Seahorse."

"My thanks, Ser Leyton. If you would accompany me to the Citadel, I'd like to be cleverer still."

Unlike the Hightower on Battle Isle, the Citadel was too sprawling a complex to be situated in a single island alone. Instead, it straddled both sides of the Honeywine, with arching stone bridges to keep its series of towers and domes connected. A pair of green statues flanked its gates; with the bodies of lions, the wings of eagles, and the tails of serpents. One had the face of a man, the other a woman.

Just inside the gates was the Scribe's Hearth where a line of Oldtown's denizens had formed. Lines were for plebians.

"Ser Leyton!" the acolyte manning the booth squeaked. "How may the Citadel assist you today?"

Leyton gestured to Lelouch.

"Good morning," Lelouch said. "I'm looking for a maester with multiple links of lead and iron. Would you happen to know anyone?"

"Archmaester Metselen. I can see if he's available."

Lelouch smiled pleasantly. "That would be wonderful. Thank you."

"You didn't need me," Leyton said. "You needed the respect of House Hightower."

"By association. There are fewer ways to be taken seriously by the maesters, and none I have the patience for," Lelouch said.

"So iron is warcraft, but what does lead signify?"

"Architecture," Lelouch said.

"A peculiar combination to ask for," Leyton said. "I'd have thought cobalt would be of greater interest for a Velaryon."

"What can I say? My interests are eclectic. Besides, shipworks I can learn from the maester at Driftmark."

Archmaester Metselen supported a hardwood staff and a limp, though he looked not a half decade over forty. He was clean shaven and with more jingling links on his chain than Lelouch had ever seen on a single man.

"Ser Leyton," the Archmaester said, "and judging by the eyes, this must be your Velaryon squire?"

"My squire's older brother actually. Lelouch Velaryon, the heir to Driftmark," Leyton said.

Metselen's hard grey eyes rested on Lelouch. "What can I do for you, my lord?"

"It's an honor to meet you, Archmaester Metselen. I was hoping to pick your mind on matters of iron and lead," Lelouch said.

"You wish to learn about mangonels?" the Archmaester asked.

"Castles," Lelouch corrected, "though I'd welcome your thoughts on siegecraft too, if we have time to spare."

"That," Metselen said, "is a strange request. But I do not oft get lordlings to come see me personally, or with such esteemed company."

"It seems you have much to discuss," Leyton said. "I shall take my leave."

"Thank you, Ser Leyton. Your presence has been most helpful," Lelouch said.

"I'm sure you'd have managed without me," Leyton said, before leaving.

"So castles, what of it?" Metselen asked.

"I'd like to build one, or rebuild one to be more accurate. Are you familiar with the castle High Tide?"

"I know that it burned down over a century ago, which is why you should never build keeps purely from wood, even if it's weirwood," Metselen said. "You are aware you'll need a license to crenellate from the king?"

"I am," Lelouch said.

"Not easy to come by, those," Metselen said. "I've held the lead rod for ten years, you know, and never supervised the construction of so much as a holdfast. No work I can point to, save my students. I wonder why I should humor you."

"What have you to lose but time?"

"When you get to my age, there's nothing worth quite as much as time. What have I to gain?"

"How about a legacy?" Lelouch asked. "If you do this, I shall name a tower or some section in your honor."

His eyes glinted with amusement. "I suppose we best make this fantasy castle of yours a monument that can last the ages then."

**-ZeroRequiem-**

Corwyn's nameday came and went.

The Hightowers were kind enough to throw a small feast in his honor, and Lelouch had ordered some caskets of Arbor gold brought out for the occasion. It was the least they could do in the face of Ser Leyton's generosity.

Besides, they had an abundance of wine on their ships after their stop with the Redwynes. The famed Tyroshi purple dyes they traded it for were in short supply recently due to an increase of pirate raids in the narrow sea. The corsairs were organizing around a figure they called the Old Mother.

A dim name for a pirate, and not one that inspired fear.

Still, it was quite fortunate as it allowed them a stronger position to trade from then might otherwise be possible.

As for Archmaester Metselen, he showed his years of learning in coming up with a blueprint for High Tide. The man had ideas Lelouch had never even thought of, like stone barriers out at sea to create a safe harbor where there was none. The sketch he took home was half done, but Metselen had assured him it was sufficient to begin with, and there would be room to expand as needed.

Three weeks passed them in the blink of an eye.

His expedition was no stream of spice and silk like Corlys Velaryon's had been, but it was a moderate success. Crucially, it afforded him a voice, though tiny, on his father's regency council.

"Our first order of business?" Lelouch asked.

"Lord Velaryon has requested your sister be sent to King's Landing to serve as Princess Rhaella's lady-in-waiting," Maester Banneth said.

_And to catch Prince Aerys' eye_, Lelouch thought. "An honorable post."

"And a familiar face ought to do my husband some good," Mother said with a nod.

"Lord Velaryon has also bid us to build more ships," Maester Banneth said. "And not simple tradeships, he was specific in stating vessels fit for war."

"How many ships?" Uncle asked.

"The Seahorse Fleet is to number sixty-five," Maester Banneth said, "so another fifteen ships on top of what we have."

"Even rushed, that'll be a year's work," said Ser Morren, the master-at-arms. "Forgive me for saying this, Lady Velaryon, but I do not believe we have the coin to spend on this."

"It is my lord husband's command, so our course is set. All that remains to be discussed is how best to see it done," Mother said. "It will be difficult, but not impossible now that the Wendwaters provide us timber."

Ser Morren tilted his head towards Lelouch.

"Hull is our only port capable of building war galleys," Lelouch said. "I can ride there on the morrow with some men and have word put out that we're in need of shipwrights. As for how to pay them, does anyone have any ideas?"

It all came back to coin in the end.

**-ZeroRequiem-**

On a good horse, a man could travel the full length of Driftmark's shores in a day. But without the proper tools, it was difficult to know how large his domains were exactly or how many men looked to Castle Driftmark for leadership.

Maester Banneth hypothesized that the island had formed, much like Dragonstone, from the volcanic spew of Dragonmont. It was not beyond the realm of possibility—the Targaryen sigil was visible from the northeastern tip of the island, and vice versa. It would certainly explain the fertility of the island, though their size limited them from becoming a true breadbasket like the Reach or the riverlands. Still, that and plentiful fish meant they were not at the complete mercy of others for food during winter.

"There is good and bad to everything, my lord," Mysaria said. "The island is small, yes, but with it comes control."

He was playing cyvasse without both of his light horses today. "Explain."

The first move of the game was her heavy horse, as always. "From what you've told me of these gardens and sands-"

"Highgarden and Dorne."

"-they seem to control much land. Yet, there are those among their lords who could and would defy if it suited them. Can any one of your lesser lords do the same?"

"No," Lelouch said. "If many of them banded together perhaps."

"But that is less likely. In the Free Cities, it is the same. Great magisters have land and slaves and ships, but must rely on their overseers and captains to control much of it," Mysaria said, considering her move and settling on a waiting one. "Lesser magisters have less, but know what goes on daily in their manse."

"You may have a point," Lelouch said. "How far along are you?"

"Two and a half months," she said proudly. "It will be a boy, I think."

Lelouch took her trebuchet. "The child will be a bastard. You know that my uncle cannot legitimize him."

"I know," Mysaria said, "but he will be born free, and that is more than I can say for myself."

Lelouch considered the board. "Have you thought of what to name him or her?"

"I had hoped Adamm would name him," she said. "I am not so familiar with Westerosi names."

"Names are important," Lelouch said. "Do you know the history behind yours?"

"Some of it, not in great detail, but enough to know my namesake was not a pleasant woman for your people," Mysaria said. "In Lys, many magisters and brothel owners will name a portion of their slaves after figures of history or lore, to help those men who prefer stories _fantasize_."

_Men like Uncle_. "Tell me about Lys."

"It is a beautiful city, my lord, with many palms, the sweetest pineapples you'll ever taste, and—"

"Speak of Lys like a _Lyseni _would, in the tongue of Valyria," Lelouch said.

"You speak Valyrian?" she asked, quirking her brow.

"I know the odd phrase, like _qogralbar ao_."

She snorted. "That was also the first phrase I heard your Uncle utter. Why is it men must be so crude?"

"It's important to be able to express your displeasure to anyone at any time," Lelouch said. "Now, speak."

"You would not understand," Mysaria said.

"Try me," Lelouch said.

So she spoke, and he listened, and they played.

**AN: **For those of you who want a map of the Stepstones, or to know the full rules of Cyvasse my story uses, you may find these things threadmarked under Informational on Spacebattles.


	4. Drift Days

**Chapter 4: Drift Days**

Alarra begged to stay a few days more on Driftmark.

"Father mislikes it when we delay," Lelouch said as she broke her fast on oat bread with bits of candied orange peel and apples. He much preferred his bread without frills and paired with smoked herring.

"Father mislikes it when _you _delay," Alarra said after swallowing. "I'm his prized jewel."

Lelouch poured his mother a goblet of Dornish red, and offered it to her with a look.

"It is fine, Lelouch," Mother said. "Alarra can stay. Your father will not mind much, I think. Besides, she has yet to finish packing."

Alarra nodded with vigor. "You should finish eating faster," she said.

"Why the rush?" Lelouch asked.

"I want to go to the beach and I can't go alone."

He scrunched his brows. "Don't you need to pack?"

"There'll be plenty of time for it later. Come on!" Alarra said, dragging him from the table.

They passed through the courtyard and immediately veered away from the gates. "Why are we headed to the stables?" Lelouch asked. "The beach is close enough to walk to."

"Don't be silly, Lelouch. The best sands are by High Tide," she said. Alarra dropped his hand and rushed over to rub her horse's back. "Did you miss me, Meraxes?"

Lelouch sighed and walked over to Seasmoke. He saddled up the silver-grey destrier and mounted it with some difficulty. "Ready to go?" Lelouch asked.

Alarra patted down the side pack on Meraxes, then leaned forward and raised her body slightly, putting pressure on Meraxes with her legs. The horse neighed and galloped out of the stables. "Race you to the ruins!"

The road from Driftmark Castle to High Tide was as well-paved as the kingsroad, though not quite as wide. It did not, however, cut straight through the island, but hugged the shores so that following it required them to circumnavigate nearly half of Driftmark. Over such distances, Alarra's horse tired quickly at a gallop, and her lead diminished in the face of Seasmoke's steady canter.

She didn't seem in quite a rush after Lelouch caught up, even slowing down to a trotting pace. It afforded them the luxury of scenery and conversation.

"To think, it's been years since we last rode together like this," Lelouch said, as the road curved into a southwesterly route. They could see the shores of barren, rocky Dragonstone just across the Prince's Strait.

"Not since we came back from Oldtown. You've been busy making Septa Kailsey gush," Alarra said. "_Oh, your brother gives his coin to the poor_ and _Lelouch visits the smallfolk_. Half the time, it's all she talks about while Kiren and I work on our stitches."

"That must have been a pain," Lelouch said, the corner of his lips faintly tilting upwards.

"Unbearably so. I shall be glad to leave her behind when I leave for King's Landing." She nudged Meraxes off the road and into the gently sloping white sands. The morning sun shining overhead mixed with a sea breeze made for pleasant weather. "You though, I'll miss most of all."

"More than Mother?" Lelouch asked.

"Mother doesn't quite bow to my every whim like you do," Alarra said.

"I am but your most humble servant, my queen," Lelouch said, offering an imaginary wreath of flowers like a victor knight would.

She giggled and accepted. "Look, the ruins!"

High Tide may have been built to house the Sea Snake's wealth, but it's spot was chosen on its own merits. Situated near the northwestern tip of the island, the glassy elevated bedrock of half-melted stones was ideally placed to help protect the Prince's Strait and the Gullet both. On a clear day such as this, one could even see the outline of Sharp Point if aided with a far-eye, along the northern tip of Massey's Hook.

Alarra dismounted, handing Lelouch her reins as she skipped up the rocks with abandon. Lelouch hitched their horses to a wooden post Uncle Adamm had erected. The years exposed to salt and sun had not been kind to the oak, and it would need replacing soon.

He joined Alarra standing atop the "Dragon Roost", the highest stone mound near the center of the ruins. He followed her gaze west, where the paved road stretched downhill, through the lands of House Swyftfoot and all the way down to the ramshackle grouping of huts that still called itself Spicetown.

"This place really makes you think, doesn't it?" she said, back still turned.

"We might have called this place home, had it not been torched," Lelouch answered. "Seven willing, we might see it raised in our lifetimes."

She snorted. "And how would you rebuild it, if you could?"

"To begin with, I wouldn't use weirwood for most of the keep," Lelouch said, pointing to where he thought it might have been built. No records of its building survived save the stray passage from the Oakenfist's accounts in _Hard as Oak _and _Bastard Born_. Maester Banneth had helped him piece together what clues could be found, and Archmaester Metselen put the finishing touches on his mental picture of it.

"Did they really?" Alarra asked. "What on earth for?"

"As far as we know, yes. It was cheaper than stone at the time," Lelouch said, "and lasts twice as long against the elements. House Blackwood's Raventree Hall still claims to have structures of weirwood from whence it was first raised."

"Do you think the tales are true?"

Lelouch tilted his head. "It is not beyond possibility, though with how many wars the Blackwoods and Brackens have waged on each other's lands, it stretches belief that there are parts wholly untouched by fire."

Alarra turned her gaze on him, locking him in place with her round, purple eyes. "Keep building and histories… you have strange hobbies, Brother." She smiled. "But a little strangeness is not unwelcome. It's what makes you _you_."

"Why is it you wanted to come out here?" Lelouch asked. "High Tide never held a special place in your heart, not like the Tall Fields or Evendim Ridge did."

"What can I say? It's grown on me." Alarra leaned against a stump of stone. "It's got… character to it?"

"Our trip to Oldtown changed you," Lelouch said.

"It opened my eyes to possibility. That we might make more of this place than as it stands," Alarra said.

Lelouch nodded. "A worthy seat for our house with a city to rival Oldtown in splendor, if not in people."

"Perhaps not that grand," Alarra said, and pointed. "Say, is that our keeping stone?"

Lelouch squinted his eyes. "I think it is." He walked over to it and toppled over the top stone, before reaching in to pull out a shortbow and some arrows. "Remember these?"

"How could I forget? You taught me how to shoot with that bow and Mr. Haystack."

He tested the wood and found it still quite springy in his hands. Some more investigating yielded string and a straw target. Lelouch frowned. "I don't remember this being here when we last left."

"It's been years. I'm surprised you remember much of anything about this place."

"Yes, but the make of this looks new," Lelouch said. "I can't imagine this target more than a few weeks old."

"You're just imagining things," Alarra said. "No one comes out here but us. Or maybe Uncle and Donnall brought it when they last came."

Lelouch gave her an incredulous look as he propped up the target some yards away. "Uncle _and_ Donnall?"

"It could happen," Alarra said. "Now quit your chatter and hand it over. I'm going to beat you this time."

"You've never managed before. What makes you think it'll be any different now?"

She shot him a brilliant smile. "Because you'll go easy on me?"

Lelouch drove his first arrow straight into the bull's eye and handed her the bow. Alarra took it with a pout.

They went a few more rounds, and though Alarra could shoot well, she could not shoot perfectly when the winter winds picked up. "We should head back soon," Lelouch said. "Mother might send out an armed party after us if we don't."

"Let her," Alarra said. "We ought to stay a few more minutes."

"Is that really how you'd want to spend your last days here?" Lelouch asked.

"Don't be so dour. I'm leaving for King's Landing, not going on exile to Braavos."

"Father hopes to marry you off and you are of age for it," Lelouch said. "You'll be expected to stay by your husband's side or at his home."

"My future husband will let me visit," she said.

"How can you be certain?" Lelouch asked.

Alarra fluttered her lashes at him. "Because you're the most stubborn man I know, and I can make you do things."

Lelouch snorted.

"Do you suppose," Alarra asked, "Prince Aerys will treat me kindly, if we wed?"

"I cannot claim to know him well," Lelouch said, "but Father is a good judge of character, and has nothing but praise for Prince Aerys' wit and skill at arms. He may yet be the greatest king to sit on the Iron Throne." He held her hand and peered into her eyes. "Yet, all of it would be for naught if he hurts you. I would bring the world down to protect my family."

"You," Alarra said, a gust of wind fraying her hair, "are being very dramatic again. No wonder Father fears you might run off and join a mummer's troupe. What about Princess Rhaella? What have you heard of her?"

"I know less of her than Aerys," Lelouch admitted. "Father writes little of her, and his brief mentions are to praise her beauty. I think he hopes I might be smitten by his descriptions and seek her hand. She's lithe and has the look of old Valyria—a classic Targaryen beauty."

"Do you not want to marry the princess?" Alarra asked.

Lelouch shrugged. "What I want has little to do with who I wed in the end. Father schemes with little heed for my thoughts, like he always does."

They made their way back to their horses and Alarra pulled out a thing of silken weave from her side pack.

"What's this?" Lelouch asked as she handed it to him.

She unfurled it, revealing their family's seahorse stitched with care. "A banner I stitched with silks from YiTi," she said. "Something for you to remember me by on your next voyage."

"It's beautiful. Thank you," Lelouch said.

The ride back to Driftmark went by faster. As they neared, he recognized the sigils of Harrock, Bryne, Tallfield, and all their other vassals flying. "What's going on here?" Lelouch asked.

"You ought to get dressed quickly," Alarra said. "We have guests."

He narrowed his eyes at her. "You tricked me."

"You let yourself be tricked," Alarra chided. "After all, you should have known. We have yet to throw a banquet after your first voyage."

**-ZeroRequiem-**

Crab pies and snail and salted haddock filled the tables, alongside rarer dishes of pork and beef.

"The blandissory is quite good, Lady Velaryon," said Ser Beren Bryne from down the high table.

Lelouch thought the mixture of beef broth and boiled wine with honey, blanched almonds, and chunks of capon too rich, but it seemed exactly the sort of thing the second son of Lord Bryne might like. Ser Bryne's dress of silk and silver Myrish lace must have cost more than all the food on all the tables put together, with coin enough to spare for a good sword.

"Have you given thought to your next voyage, my lord?" Ser Derrick Goodchair asked.

"I'm not sure what could ever compare after Oldtown, if I'm being truthful," Lelouch said, taking a sip of dry red. The Florent vintage was a lesser sweetness than Arbor gold, but then all wines were the same in that regard. "Mayhaps somewhere far off like the Jade Sea would be nice."

"You have a taste for exotic lands," Derrick said.

"Just so, Ser Goodchair. Just so."

"I am surprised," interjected Orin, the favorite nephew of Lord Swyftfoot, "that the Captain of Tides is not with us today. He played his part well on your trip I'm told."

"My uncle's many duties keep him busy," Lelouch said. "His patrols of the narrow can blow him off course for weeks at a time and sailing for Braavos has its hazards." They had needed coin for ships and wood, coin only the Iron Bank was willing to lend them.

Orin frowned. "With the new ships being built at Hull, I might have thought he'd spend more time here with such a task at hand. Speaking of which, have you an inkling who might be bestowed the honor of captaincy, my lord?"

"It remains a matter of great debate among my regents and I," Lelouch said. Ser Morren sought the command for his younger brother Manren, while Uncle was opposed to it. It would most likely fall to one of the other lords.

"Well, I'd hope to be kept in mind for such a post as well," Derrick Goodchair said.

"Rest assured," Lelouch said, spying Alarra laugh at something Bryne had said, "we are giving the matter due consideration, my lords."

**-ZeroRequiem-**

Lelouch and his uncle stood side by side, watching the _Seafyre_ sail west to King's Landing. It was only fitting that the jewel of the Driftmark Fleet carried the darling of the Velaryons.

"In a fight," Lelouch said, "who would you bet on? The _Seafyre_ or the _Season of Tides_?"

Uncle tilted his head. "If it were my crew and my man Moreo at the helm? The _Season of Tides_ would trump the _Seafyre _easily. It may be faster, but it's men are still new. Plus, I've got some new additions for my ship to even any odds."

"Really?" Lelouch asked.

"See those ballistas there?" Uncle pointed to his moored ship.

"You've added two more on each side," Lelouch said.

Uncle grinned. "Moreo's been playing around with one for years. Finally figured out how to make it pivot and move around faster. We can even bring one ashore now."

"If you brought them to bare at one side, you could unleash ten bolts at a time," Lelouch said. "Your men would have to practice though, to make the most use of them in a fight. Once the ship is boarded, they won't be of much use."

"Aye, that's when the numbers will tell. _Seafyre_ has three men per oar and twenty-five oars a side; that makes it one and a half times faster than my _Season of Tides_, but they've no space for ballista as a result. A well-aimed volley would destroy any crew's will to fight, even trained and tested men," Uncle said.

"So it would come down to the first few shots," Lelouch mused. "If they hit true, you might win without losing a man, but if they don't, your ship would be overrun."

Uncle nodded. "But you're forgetting something else. My ship is narrower, and built for ramming. It will win any contest of maneuver against the _Seafyre_."

"You'd sail circles around it, wear it down?" Lelouch asked.

"Now you're getting it. Battle at sea doesn't just boil down to speed and numbers-"

"-but weather and maneuver," Lelouch finished. "I remember your lessons well, Uncle."

"Ha! Good that you do. You may be the last of my kin to truly be a seaman," Uncle said. "Corwyn's head has been filled with Reach dreams and knighthood. He prefers horses to seahorses now, I think."

"Kiren likes to sail," Lelouch said.

"My daughter likes _cruising_," Uncle said. "Pleasure barges ambling down gentle rivers while servants feed her grapes. That's not what real seamanship is. And Donnall..." He frowned. "How is my son?"

"He trains with the sword at the crack of dawn each day," Lelouch said, "and does not rest until sundown, except to eat."

Uncle shook his head. "There's more to war than the sword. He does himself a disservice."

"Donnall dreams of taking on the white cloak," Lelouch said.

"Then all the more crucial that he learns other things. The white cloaks are tasked to protect the king in peace, and provide sound counsel in war," Uncle said. "While much of it is decided by royal favor, having some skill at sail will greaten his chances." The Velaryons were the finest seamen on the narrow sea, and bested only by the ironborn in Westeros. No ironborn Lelouch knew of had ever been trusted to serve the king so closely.

"He sees it as a distraction," Lelouch said.

"You ought to talk some sense into him then," Uncle said. "Seven knows he listens to you more than his own father."

"All children hold a spark of rebellion at heart," Lelouch said, "even princes and princesses."

King Aegon's children had famously denied their father's wishes before Lelouch was born. Duncan wedded a peasant girl, Jahaerys and Shaera wedded each other, and Daeron had not wed at all. Only Princess Rhaelle, youngest of the dragons, had done her duty and married Lord Ormund Baratheon of Storm's End.

"You listen to your father," Uncle pointed out.

Lelouch shrugged. "Others have larger sparks?"

Uncle snorted. "Your father does not appreciate you enough. Were that any of my children half as clever as you, or loved the sea as I do. You know, Jaron used to be a great captain when your grandfather still ruled. Now? He prefers to play at court instead."

"I know he sailed to Braavos on his first voyage," Lelouch said as they walked back to their horses, "but I confess that I do not know of his other ventures."

"His third voyage is my favorite," Uncle said. They mounted up and allowed their horses a slow and pleasant gait. "He got it in his head to conquer the Stepstones with his lone ship, and be crowned a pirate king."

Lelouch frowned. "That doesn't sound like him."

"He was a very different man back then, much more willful and brash like me."

"Did he attempt to take Pryr?" Lelouch asked. The island was not one of the larger ones, and was closest to Tyrosh.

"No, Pryr was under the thumb of the Archon even then," Uncle said. "I'll give you a hint—it was one of the larger islands."

Not counting Tyrosh, there were fourteen major islands on the Stepstones and countless minor ones, most little more than small outcrops on the narrow sea. "Hmm… the Veil is closest to Dorne, but you said he sought to be a pirate king. Redwater is too far south that I don't think it a likely option."

"That leaves you with Highwatch, Scarwood, and Bloodstone."

"Highwatch would let one survey the Stepstones on a clear day, and Scarwood has fertile soil," Lelouch said.

"Aye, but Bloodstone is the biggest."

"It also has the most pirates," Lelouch said. The island was half abandoned outposts and burnt harbors, half pirate dens and smuggler havens. "Bloodstone is closest to Driftmark too, other than Pryr. How is he still alive if he tried to take it with but one ship?"

"By the grace of the old gods and new," Uncle said. "A storm blew him off course and wrecked his ship on Tarth's storm shore. Lord Highwood found his sorry ass and took pity on him, offered him shelter in his keep. It was fortuitous for Jaron that Alysanne and her father were there as well."

"Is that how they met? Mother never told me this story."

Uncle snorted. "To spare your father the embarrassment, I think. He looked quite the fool to her, arriving soaking wet and testing the narrow sea during the fall."

Autumn storms were frequent, but not as harsh as the rarer ones born in winter. "What did he think of my mother?" Lelouch asked.

"He was smitten instantly," Uncle said. "Jaron returned months later with a greater fleet to ask for her hand. You should have seen his face when she asked if they'd met before."

Lelouch smiled. "That must have stung his pride."

"Jaron wished at first that the Drowned God might have taken him rather than be dealt such a cruel blow. No wound bites deeper than a fair maiden's scorn," Uncle said. "But he was nothing if not persistent and would not leave 'til Lord Tarth agreed to a betrothal."

"That actually worked?"

"Do not forget your grandfather was the master of ships as well, and that the Targaryens greatly favored us. Your grandfather was the son of a Targaryen, and no other house can claim kinship like we do. In the days of old, even a Lord Paramount would be honored to join their daughters to our house."

"Those days are long past," Lelouch said.

Uncle raised a brow at him. "We are not so diminished, even now, that others might heap scorn on us freely."

They stopped at the base of a hill. "Are you going to see her again?" Lelouch asked, glancing at the Mouse House above them.

"I should. She wants to discuss names," Uncle said with a frown.

"Names are important, but I think it is of greater import to discuss what you will do with my cousin when he or she is born," Lelouch said.

"I'd raise the child at Driftmark Castle, where those of our blood belong," Uncle said.

"I would welcome another cousin," Lelouch said. "Driftmark has grown lonely as of late and I should need someone new to dote over. Still...you know Aunt Eunice would not approve."

"Your aunt and I have not been on good terms since before Kiren was born," Uncle said. "It would change nothing."

"If you are truly set on this, then I am with you," Lelouch said.


	5. Myr

**Chapter 5: Myr**

"The second batch of five ships will begin construction soon," Uncle said.

"What of the men to man them?" Lelouch asked.

"The squadron will join the command of Lord Dromin Chaseman. Captain Moreo has picked out some old hands that have a head for the tides to give captaincy to. As for the crews, we have green boys lining up in Hull for the chance to serve."

"It's good to hear that things are progressing smoothly on that end," Ser Morren Tallfield said.

Lelouch sighed. "Problems with coin again?"

"Aye," said Ser Morren. "We've already taken out loans with the Iron Bank to see us through, but the debtors will come collecting soon enough."

"Something must be done about the financial situation before things become… dire," Maester Banneth said.

"Let us save these discussions for later. What other matters of import?"

"Your father has ordered another voyage to Myr," Mother said.

"Preparations will be made at once," Uncle said.

His mother turned her eyes towards him. "For this voyage, he insists Lelouch be present."

Lelouch frowned. _That is unusual for Father._

"How soon can you depart?" Mother asked.

"I did not expect another trip so soon after returning from Myr just last month. _Seafyre _and my own ship are moored in Hull, but the _Blood Orange_ and _Westerwind_ will need to be recalled immediately," Uncle said, "Seven willing, we can leave in three days. The trip to Myr itself will take another seven days if the gods are generous with the wind, ten if they aren't."

"Has Father said anything else on the matter?" Lelouch asked.

Mother shook her head, sending strands of black hair swaying. "The only other thing he has written of is that King Aegon and his royal party will hold court at Summerhall within a fortnight."

"Is Father going?" Lelouch asked.

"No, his health worsens. Besides, the crown prince will remain in King's Landing with his son, and they will need counsel. Your father thinks it a test."

That meant Princess Rhaella, and more importantly his sister, would be going to Summerhall too. _Father will be displeased that Alarra will have less time to spend with Prince Aerys_, Lelouch thought, _but so will all the other ladies at court vying for his affections. It could be worse. Father staying behind though… that seems to me a play to cement ties with Prince Jaehaerys. Perhaps the trip to Myr is connected somehow?_

"What of our granaries and warehouses?" Lelouch asked.

"I am nearly done with my count, and it pleases me to say we overshot our expectations. Our people will have enough food to see them through this winter without issue, and I doubt even the poorest will go hungry this year," Maester Banneth said.

"That is welcome news," Ser Morren said.

"Finally, a dispute of some consequence has arisen between a merchant and Lord Bryne," Maester Banneth said. "From the accounts gathered, it appears Ser Beren Bryne has accrued significant debt these past few months."

No surprise there.

"Is Lord Bryne unwilling to pay?" Mother asked.

"He is willing," Maester Banneth said.

"Then he ought to pay the merchant. This does not seem a matter for us to meddle in," Uncle said.

Lelouch raised a hand. "Peace, Uncle. Let Maester Banneth finish his piece."

"The problem arises from the _means _of payment," Maester Banneth said. "The merchant insists on coin, while Lord Bryne only has goods to pay with."

"What sort of goods?" Lelouch asked.

"I believe he offered salt and cheese."

Lelouch steepled his fingers. "It occurs to me that our three problems may need but one solution," he said.

"What do you have in mind?" Mother asked.

"Firstly, we will pay the merchant his coin, and Lord Bryne will give to us what is owed in goods," Lelouch said. "We have three days before departing for Myr. That will give us time to load the salt and cheese on the ships at port. Then we can sell the goods in Myr for a profit, and alleviate some of our financial burdens."

"I have other business to attend to than shaking hands with the magisters. Will you take charge of selling these items?" Uncle asked.

"I will," Lelouch said.

"A fine plan, my lord," Ser Morren said.

Uncle snorted. "So be it. We can inform Lord Bryne and the copper counter of our decision when we hold court on the morrow. I have business in town if that is all for today?"

"I will walk with you to the stables, Uncle," Lelouch said, jumping to his feet.

"Before you go, my lord, you have a letter from your sister," Maester Banneth said, handing him a sealed scroll.

"Thank you, Maester," Lelouch said. He left the room with his uncle and walked in silence for some minutes. "She is eight months along, is she not?"

"She is," Uncle said.

"Are you still set on raising the babe here?"

"It is my blood. I will not leave him or her out there, when I can offer better," Uncle said.

"It will be painful," Lelouch said. "Not only for you, or Aunt Eunice, but also for the child. We have seen what happens with Donnall. You are not around often enough, and the children become the object of Aunt's scorn. I do not say this to dissuade you, but that you be aware there will be different pains to bear."

"I know," he said. "She will not be a distraction."

Lelouch nodded and stopped before the main doors leading to the courtyard. "Aunt Eunice will return a month after the birth. We ought to be ready for it."

He let his uncle go and broke open the wax seal.

"_Dear Lelouch, _

_Since I last wrote to you, Princess Myriah of Dorne arrived at the Red Keep. She is becoming fast friends with Princess Rhaella, though remains distant to myself and Lady Joanna…"_

**-ZeroRequiem-**

The silk seahorse flag flew overhead.

Sculptures of Red Bull, and Black Goat, and Night Lion guarded the waterfront. Divinities foreign and familiar were worshipped in Myr freely. It was the way of merchants to mislike risk, so it came as no surprise that in the great wager of the soul, a city of merchants had hedged itself against every deity with every other deity.

"Fools, the lot of them," said Ser "Spend-all".

"I didn't take you for a religious man, Ser Bryne," Donnall said.

"I'm not, but a people who believe in all the gods believe none of them in truth. To have faith is to risk," Ser Bryne said. "Besides, most gods I know of are petty and I've certainly never heard of one that looked kindly on the worship of another."

"I don't know about any of that, but I am famished," Donnall said, flipping a silver Myrish craft. It landed atop his wrist, and he slapped his other hand over it. "Ship or slave, Cousin?"

"Slave," Lelouch said.

Donnall's face scrunched. "How do you get it right every _single_ time."

"The better question is why don't you know better by now?"

Ser Spend-all stiffened alongside all sworn swords gathered. Uncle Adamm, flanked by Bluebeard, walked onto the deck with a hand on his hilt. "We will be splitting up," Uncle announced.

Lelouch, already aware of the arrangements, took the time to study the men raised to die for him. There were men from all their bannermen present, and more than a few were led by a brother, or cousin, or second son of the seven lords sworn to Driftmark.

"Keep your swords in their sheaths unless we fall under threat of death. We are not some war party on grim business," Uncle said. "Essos is a different beast from our home, sers. They do not recognize kings here, nevermind us mere lords and lordlings."

"I will not let it be said that I left you lot to fall into their nets with your eyes shut." Uncle's eyes swept through them. Those who'd never strayed from Westeros could be picked out by the visible unease etched onto their fresh faces. "The magisters may heap you with lavish gifts, but do not forget that they are _merchants_. Even sacred guest rights and courtesy are _transactions_ to them."

"I will lead the first party," Uncle said, "to collect information for my brother, your liege lord. Lord Lelouch has _business_ of his own to attend to and will need a proper armed escort."

Ser Spend-all grimaced, and hung his head.

"The sailors will remain under command of Captain Moreo." Uncle pointed to Bluebeard behind him with his thumb. "A third of them will be on ship at all times in case a situation arises that sees us depart posthaste. Keep that in mind in case some among you get lost in the brothels."

The lordlings Swyftfoot, Tallfield, and Harrock flushed. Ser Goodchair laughed. Lord Wells rolled his eyes and Ser Chaseman looked scandalized that highborn might mingle so intimately with their lessers.

The gangplank was thrown down. "Decide for yourselves, quickly," Uncle said, and shared a few words with Bluebeard before descending. Wells and Harrock followed without a second thought, and Tallfield took a moment before scuttling after them. Goodchair seemed to consider it, but took too long and soon Uncle was out of sight.

"Not curious what he gets up to, Donnall?" Lelouch asked.

"And leave you defenseless in this city of heathens?" Donnall shot back.

Chaseman growled. "That is no way for a bastard to speak to a lord."

"It was said in jest, Ser Chaseman," Lelouch said, before turning to Donnall. "We'll be in that tavern over there. Grab something to eat quick and join us as soon as you can."

Where there were taverns, there were sailors on shore with news from foreign shores and nothing attracted traders more. Where men saw famine in Tyrosh as a tragedy, merchants saw opportunity.

"See, Westeros has much to trade despite the winter, and in a few years, we'll be ladaen with summer yields as well," Lelouch said to Orthos. "A warm winter such as this is good indication that the coming years will be good to us. Our ships at dock have cheese and salt, but in Driftmark alone we have much grain, and my father has the ships to see them safely through the Stepstones."

"That is quite the prospect you've painted me," Orthos agreed. "Though your salt will not do you much good here. Magister Zoutos controls much of the market, he may as well set the price. His last competitors he bought last month. That is a man that does not tolerate dissent in his territory."

"That pains me to hear," Lelouch said.

Donnall walked in with a three-sided pie that he folded in half and took a bite, strings of cheese stretching out as he pulled his mouth back.

"What is that thing?" Goodchair asked as he reached their table.

Donnall swallowed. "They call it a Myrish pie. Cheese, herbs, and some salted meats on a piece of bread."

"I've never heard of it before," said Ser Spend-all.

"It is a new thing to come to the city," Orthos said, "and has brought great wealth to Magister Rasporos Basil."

"It seems a simple enough thing to me," Lelouch said. "Would you not need an oven and a few ingredients to make such food?"

"You speak true, but Magister Rasporos was first, and there is value in that though others have learned to make his craft," Orthos said. "He owns more than half the food sellers who can make the pie, and different flavors of pie are unveiled monthly at his manse. In fact, he ought to have one within the sennight."

"Is there perchance a means to obtain an invitation to the good magister's manse?"

Orthos' grin was all teeth. "Anything can be bought for the right price."

It did not come down to coin in the end. All that it might buy the magisters had plenty of for their wealth made most lords look to be beggars. But some things gold could not buy easily or quickly, such as a Valyrian sword or the ear of great men.

Lelouch had none of those things, but between the heir of Driftmark and the brother of Lord Velaryon, they held enough sway to together be considered the Lord Velaryon in truth. The same Lord Velaryon who was master of ships to the Iron Throne, and whose house had married into the dragons.

The same Lord Velaryon who was privy to the king's thoughts and held sway over the rate of tolls and tariffs.

It was, in truth, a thin sliver to work with, but Magister Rasporos was not the greatest of their order and had need of an honored guest - for what magister could call themself such without one when opening their manse? Orthos spent two days and two nights petitioning the magister with the opportunity before him, something Lelouch could not do or else look desperate and diminish his own worth.

His price for his service? To be with the Velaryons on the night in question, and in doing so gain the attention of powerful men.

The ceremonies to enter the world of magisters were not wholly unfamiliar to Lelouch, save that the Myrmen were much more honest about the true nature of their dealings than Westerosi highborn.

"I leave you alone for a few days and you come back with invites to a magister's manse," Uncle said. "If I return in a few weeks, will it be to see your coronation as king of the penny pinchers?"

Lelouch scoffed. "A mere city is far too small for my demesne."

Magister Rasporos' manse was situated on the gently sloped Lense Hillock, which overlooked both the port and the dragon road at its peak. A quartet of Unsullied with their bronze spiked caps and green lace cloaks stood guard. The one with two spikes on his cap and an obtrusive belly barked something in a guttural, bastard dialect of Valyrian Lelouch couldn't quite decipher.

Orthos replied with the same harsh sounds, gesturing in wide, sweeping movements that made the silver rings adorning his arms rattle and clink.

Uncle grimaced once they passed through the gates. "Gods, how do you fight for men who've taken a knife to your balls and slapped a collar on your neck?"

"It's all they've ever known," Lelouch said with a frown, "and I suppose those who didn't listen died early."

Multicolored flower petals snaked across the torchlit courtyard, guiding guests through the gardens to a glass pavilion crafted like a giant's gemstone. "My friends," Orthos said, "please allow me to make the proper introductions befitting the honored guests." He stepped forward, snatched a goblet from the waiting slave girl and raising it high in toast.

This time, Orthos' words were Myrish. It was a sensual tongue, not entirely unlike the dialect of a Lysene courtesan.

"I present Lelouch of the House Velaryon, heir to Driftmark and son of Lord Jaron Velaryon, who is Lord of the Tides, Master of Driftmark, Lord admiral of the Royal Fleet of Westeros, and Master of ships. With him comes Adamm of the House Velaryon, Captain of the Tides and…" Orthos continued for a full minute, listing every ship in their floatilla before reiterating the titles of Lelouch's father once more as if to make a point.

Orthos punctuated the end of his speech by throwing down the goblet, showing it to be empty. The others did likewise.

"That was mouthier than the king's honors. Do you all talk like this?" Uncle asked after Orthos finished to polite applause.

"Only for honored guests, and only for their introduction," Orthos said. "We merchants understand brevity when it suits."

Unlike feasts in Driftmark, there was no high table here, or seats for that matter. Instead, the pavilion was filled with standing tables only large enough for six people to gather around if they squeezed. Some of them held cyvasse boards of ivory and jade.

There was a snapping of fingers, and serving slaves streamed in through the entrance carrying platters of Myrish pie topped with dried fish, cheese, and olives.

A dark-haired man dressed in a lace dress of fine silk strands and golden arm bands approached. Orthos tipped his head towards the olive-skinned man, and turned to them. "This is Magister Rasporos." Unlike many of the golden-ringed men in the room, his figure was lean and his face unwrinkled.

"I welcome you to my manse," Rasporos said. Orthos repeated his words in the Common Tongue for their benefit. "Enjoy the tastes and sounds of my household tonight."

"We thank you, magister," Orthos said, translating for Uncle. "It pleases us to see the business in the Disputed Lands has not hurt the prosperity of your house."

Rasporos waved his hand. "It is of no concern in the grand weave of things. The Golden Company's contract with Lys will end soon enough. When it does, we will join hands with Tyrosh to buy it back, and sweep aside the Jolly Fellows."

Uncle frowned. "Do you not fear they will march on your city?"

"They may try, but they will fail. Our ships still hold the Sea of Myrth. Besides, _the _Liomond Lashare leads a great host in our name and has made his camp unassailable by the River of Myrth," Rasporos said. "Ah, the sounds are here!"

Men carrying round wooden devices had set up on one end of the glasshouse, and made sharp sounds by beating on them with sticks. The lively beat served as background to a woman's lovely serenade of the song "Driftdance".

"I see that you are a fan of cyvasse, magister," Lelouch said.

"I dabble," he said. "I did not know the great game has reached the Sunset Kingdoms."

"My uncle bought me a set last year for my nameday," Lelouch said.

Rasporos' eyes lit up. "Then we must play at least once before you depart from the city!"

"Perhaps when your other guests have left."

"I will hold you to that, young lord," Rasporos said. He held out his hand and a wine glass appeared in it. "We will drink."

Lelouch received his own glass of the pale green drink that smelled like sweetened halemin flower.

"To the great game."

"...and so the drunk slept in the sea!" the singer belted out the last lines of Driftdance.

Orthos made them do rounds around the pavillion at least thrice, shaking hands and sharing drinks with another three of the city's nine ruling magisters and countless other merchants. Their novelty soon wore off on the Myrmen, and Orthos wandered off at that point. Left without a fluent translator, there was little they could do on their own.

"Why the interest in the Disputed Lands?" Lelouch asked as he tore out another slice of pie for himself. "It seems… unlike Father to keep an ear to it rather than the ongoings of the Three Daughters or Braavos."

"The Golden Company is led by a Blackfyre again," Uncle said. "Maelys the Monstrous."

"Does the Iron Throne fear another rebellion?"

"The Iron Throne is always in fear of another rebellion," Uncle said, "but this Maelys has gathered an unlikely band of three to his banner. Pirate lords and exiled princes flock to him and call themselves his allies. Already the Disputed Lands are overrun, and no force sent against them has mattered."

"A dangerous threat if left unchecked," Lelouch said.

Uncle nodded. "I should go. The city might yield more news of substance I can bring back to Jaron. Will you be alright on your own?"

"Go, don't worry about me. I may not be the best hand with a blade, but these merchants have never held one in their lives," Lelouch said.

"They wouldn't have to. They'd send their bravos or slave soldiers after you," Uncle said, "but while you are an honored guest you're safe as you can be, I suppose. Still got your dagger on you?"

"Always."

"Good. Stay safe," Uncle said.

A standing party did not cater to the tastes of the magisters and their generous bellies for much longer. They were ushered into the main house where a score of cyvasse boards could be found. A servant dressed in the green liveries of Rasporos showed Lelouch to where the magister was waiting.

Rasporos barked out an order that Lelouch roughly recognized as calling for a translator.

Then the green-haired witch of his dreams appeared. "A woman would be honored to serve as your voice tonight," she said, pausing as Rasporos said a few more words. "Do you have a preference to the color?"

Lelouch's throat dried. "Black," he croaked, keenly aware of his heartbeat all of a sudden. _It's impossible_, he thought. _She is of another world_. Yet he was here, and so was she it seemed.

"Would you consent to playing the form without fog?" she asked.

"I don't know what that means," he said, wiping his brow.

"Instead of having a barrier in the center during setup, each player takes turns placing tile and piece that the other can see."

"That is… acceptable," Lelouch said. "Thank you…?"

"A woman's name is Cici," she said. "Thanks are not needed, honored guest."

He nodded. The first tiles dropped in quick succession, and a series of mountain ranges with narrow passes were forming on Rasporos' side of the board. Lelouch opted to keep his mountains guarding his flanks while all four river tiles hampered any advance towards his half. Two of his six mountains were not placed, allowing for rapid movement along the edge of the board.

_Even her name is the same, but it could just be coincidence_, Lelouch thought. _She has not hinted that she knows me, and she speaks differently from my dreams. _

Coincidence, it could be coincidence.

Both of them opted to place their hills and forests on the second rank, though Rasporos left no space to place his fortress there. All the tiles were set. If he placed his fortress on the second rank, Rasporos would have to yield the privilege of order or place his king in untenable threat. They both knew it, and the magister's army took on a defensive stance, spears and elephants front and center to weather any charge of horse for these could only be taken by horse in select circumstances. Rabble packed tightly around his ranged, and his own horse and dragon massed to one side in reserve.

Though Lelouch's rabble and ranged were similarly placed, he preferred to keep his dragon and a light horse on a separate flank from the rest of his cavalry. His mains in spear and elephant were slightly off center, staring down the enemy horse.

"Magister Rasporos may have the first move," Lelouch said.

Rasporos' eyes widened and he stroked his chin, deep in thought.

"I have seen some of your pies in the city," Lelouch said as Cici repeated his words in the Myrish dialect. "You must have need of much salt for the meats."

"You speak truly," Rasporos said, finally moving his spear two tiles forward, right outside a mountain pass in the middle rank.

"I understand Magister Zoutos controls the salt of Myr. Does he see to your needs?" Lelouch asked, moving his dragon along the contours of the hexagon until it could advance no further or risk the catapult.

Rasporos scowled and positioned his dragon next to his catapult to check the advance. "He does, but he gouges me for it. Monopoly is a great evil of trade." His pieces now controlled the middle rank and the bulk of their armies stared each other down from across a river.

"Then perhaps something should be done about it," Lelouch said, probing the position with a rabble. It was taken quickly by another rabble.

"Men have tried," Rasporos said. "Men have failed."

"Are these men magisters?" Catapult took rabble.

"Admittedly, no," he said, looking down at the board. "I believe this game will be drawn."

"We shall see," Lelouch said, horse moving up on both sides. "So if someone could offer you a steady supply of salt for a lower price, you would consider it?"

Rasporos smiled and moved his own horse to support his forward position. "Only if they could supply enough to meet all my needs and that is no small feat. Zoutos will cease selling to men who dare buy from another, to either cripple their growth or force their hand."

"Clever," Lelouch said. "Vicious, but clever."

"Trade across the narrow sea will carry greater risk too," Rasporos said. "We would need many ships of trade and war to keep even Old Mother or the Saans wary. That would require a great deal of gold."

"There is no business without risk," Lelouch said, "and my family has ships and good men to crew them. You have merchant fleets at your beck and call. We might accomplish much together."

"And of supply?"

"If the Brynes cannot make enough, we will just have to buy from the Saltpans. In any case, it would still be cheaper by far than what Zoutos offers," Lelouch said. His horse collapsed on the center, causing great havoc.

"We may fail."

"We might, but oh how much gold we might make."

Rasporos considered the board. "There are many merchants with good heads in this city. Do you know why I am a magister and they are not?"

Lelouch tilted his head. "That you know when to take risk, when the reward is sufficient?"

He scoffed. "A man who does not understand that loses his gold quickly. No, my father had a story he'd tell me as a child. A merchant commissioned that a ship be built, but there was a flaw in the design. It could not float."

"A poor ship, that," Lelouch said.

"So what is a merchant to do then?" Rasporos asked. "He could walk away from it, writing off the gold as lost, or he could sink more of his wealth into the venture, and hope to recover some losses. But how could you walk away from it when you've already spent so much coin, and with just a little more you might reap your reward?"

"The merchant failed to recognize that the gold spent was already lost," Lelouch said, "and should not even be considered."

"Exactly," Rasporos said. "I yield."

A warning that if this proved costlier than it was worth, the magister would not hesitate to pull out.

"Another round?" Lelouch asked. "I shall play a weaker hand."

Rasporos tilted his head in assent.

"I have barrels of salt and cheese in the harbor. Perhaps you might visit, and see for yourself."

"In three days' time," Rasporos said. "You are welcome to reside with me until then. The meagre offerings of the wharf are not proper lodgings for a lord like yourself."

"I would be glad to, but my uncle might worry for me."

"I will send word to him."

The practicalities of life with a magister were not so different from being a guest of nobility, except no one cared if you did not practice with the sword in between all the drinking, feasting, and social niceties. The Basil Manse had plenty of books too, easily surpassing the pitiful tomes of Driftmark in quantity and scope. Here, he could read of the naval voyages that swung around the ruins of Old Valyria, to far off Yi Ti and the Saffron Straits where the Sea Snake made his fortune.

_I was born in the wrong continent_, Lelouch thought wistfully.

He saw little enough of Cici though. "That does not surprise me," Magister Rasporos said through a bald dark man over supper one night. "She has many duties in the manse, and has a skill for remaining hidden when she wishes. If you have need of a translator, I can send for another."

Magister Rasporos himself was away most days. He had many meetings as a member of the Council of Magisters, the elected order that led Myr. While any free man could stand for election, it was not by accident all the magisters were merchants of great wealth. It took much coin to be known by the average Myrman, and more still that they might be inclined to favor you with their vote. Each magister served for six years, with a third of the magisters chosen every two.

Three days passed quickly, and they took an ambling path to the docks, surrounded by a score of marching Unsullied spears. Cici trailed after Rasporos.

"If you will forgive me for asking, Lord Lelouch," Ser Chaseman said as they walked, "but surely there are men better suited to dealing with these copper counters than yourself."

"Who else would have the authority to speak for my father?" Lelouch asked. "My uncle is busy, and no one else with us bears the name Velaryon."

"You might ask one of your lords to handle terms, or perhaps that bastard cousin of yours would be more appropriate," Chaseman said.

Lelouch frowned at him. "Terms that they'd have to bring to me to approve."

"Of course."

"Would that not be unnecessarily roundabout, ser?" Lelouch asked. "After all, I am not so busy with other matters that I cannot spare an hour or two to speak with the magister. Besides, it may cause offense."

"He is a merchant, what does it matter if it does?" Chaseman asked.

"He is a merchant with enough gold to finance a small war," Lelouch said. "I'd say it matters quite a lot."

"You could be spending that time better, like practicing with the sword," Chaseman said.

"Enough. We will speak more of this later if you are still unsatisfied," Lelouch said.

The barrels were brought out to shore. Rasporos stuck his fingers in one of them, feeling their texture.

"A quality product, is it not?" Lelouch asked.

Rasporos licked his finger. "It is… adequate for my purposes. It remains to be seen whether the other barrels are of similar make."

"They are," Lelouch said. "You know, Magister Rasporos, it occurs to me I cannot accompany every voyage."

"No way to run a business that," Rasporos said.

"Perhaps I will need a permanent translator in my employ."

"That would be prudent," Rasporos said. "I have a few myself, though Magister Glossos owns the finest tongues."

"I do not know Magister Glossos," Lelouch said, looking at Cici. "I know you."

She raised a brow at him.

"I would like to employ this one," he said.

She translated and Rasporos' face scrunched. "Cici? I'm afraid that is not possible. She is quite dear to me."

"Come now, let us not speak of impossibilities. Everyone has a price."

He shook his head. "When you have as much gold as I, you'll realize some things cannot be bought," he said. "Now—"

"Master! Master!" A slave dressed in green ran up to them.

"What is it? I am in the middle of business," Rasporos snapped.

"It is Liomond Lashare, Master!"

Rasporos frowned. "What of him?"

"The Lord of Battles is at the gates of the city. He demands entry, and to speak with the Council."


	6. Midons

**Chapter 6: Midon**

The merchants of the Free Cities disdained the sword, and relied instead on Free Companies to fight their many wars.

"The problem with sellswords," Uncle said, peering at the Free Company of the Battleborne below the walls, "is they've no loyalty but to coin. Men like that can't be trusted not to stab you in the back for the right price."

The magisters put together owned five hundred Unsullied spears, and perhaps another three hundred crossbows could be scrounged up to defend the city in short order. Counting all the men that might be pressed into service who had experience with war, including the two hundred and fifty men that owed loyalty to the Velaryons, gave Myr access to half the men the Lashare had. Any battle in the open would leave Myr hopelessly outnumbered by the Golden Company's ten thousand.

"As long as the gates are held and the Sea of Myrth remains open, the city can withstand siege," Lelouch said.

"It will fall without blood being spilled," Uncle said. "These merchant princes are weak-willed people. They will bow at the first sign of a storm and sign a peace."

"Why would Lys agree when they might enforce harsher terms by taking the city?" Lelouch asked. "They could even annex Myr."

"War in the Free Cities is fought differently. Proper sieges are unheard of, and sackings unpopular. Even Dothraki khalasars rarely put a city to torch nowadays, so long as they pay proper tribute," Uncle said.

"A strange way to conduct war," Lelouch said.

Uncle shrugged. "They are a strange people."

Words were exchanged between the Council of Magisters and the Lashare, but eventually the gates were opened. Two and a half thousand hardened veterans armed with halberds and crossbows marched in unopposed. On the first major junction, the company splintered. The first and largest column marched east around the Lense Hillock towards the docks. The second kept on the dragon road heading north, and the third took up positions by the Gate of Lace.

"Forgive me, Uncle, but does this not look like-"

"The beginning of siege preparations, aye," Uncle said. "That worries me. I had hoped to return before Mysaria gave birth."

"Have you at last decided on a name for my cousin?" Lelouch asked as they descended down the stone steps.

Uncle nodded, a hint of a smile touching his lips. "I should name him after a great hero. Mayhaps Alyn? There was no greater man of our blood than the Oakenfist."

"A fine name," Lelouch said. "Take heart. There may still be hope. Magister Rasporos knows me, perhaps he will have news to share or an exception be made."

Uncle scoffed. "I have not lived this long by thinking the best of men."

Magister Rasporos stood just before the Gate of Lace, a gleeful look on his face. Cici bowed in greeting.

"You seem pleased, Magister Rasporos," Lelouch said.

"On the matter of letting the Lashare's sellswords in, we outvoted Zoutos and his ilk," he said. "Magister Parazhar sided with us and carried the day!"

"That is good news," Lelouch said. "We could not help but notice the men marching towards the docks though. It has left my uncle here quite anxious."

"There is nothing to fear, my friend. It is merely a precaution to keep fighting men from deserting Myr. We will need strong arms on the walls in the coming days," Rasporos said.

"Are we expecting a siege?" Uncle asked.

Rasporos tilted his head. "It is so, unfortunately. Tyrosh threw open its gates and was robbed for it, in defiance of the customs of civilized warfare. The same will not happen to us."

"Civilized warfare?" Uncle repeated.

Cici nodded. "That is what Magister Rasporos has said."

Uncle snorted. "A contradiction of terms."

"Does this mean no ships may depart?" Lelouch asked.

Rasporos' smile faded. "A necessary measure, though a hard one. It pains me as much as any, for I had a great many ships ready to set sail if not for this."

"Can exception not be made? My uncle's woman is expecting a child within the fortnight."

"I am sorry, there is nothing more to be done," he said.

Uncle's features twisted with anger and frustration. His handsome face was marred by a vicious scowl and eyes that promised pain as he stormed off. People parted before him, cowed by his wrath that clung to him like a foul odor.

Lelouch could only barely hold back his frown as he turned and addressed the magister. "You will have to forgive my uncle. That he may not see the birth of his own child is ill news to any father."

"I understand fully," Rasporos said. "If it might ease some of his pain, or make his stay here more enjoyable, he and your men may stay in my manse for the duration of the siege."

"That is a generous offer, Magister. I will accept on his behalf."

Myr was woefully unprepared for true warfare, and it showed in what they had as way of defense. A single curtain wall protected its inhabitants, without even a ditch or moat to make assault difficult. Towers from which flanking fire might be utilized were few and far between. The walls were of considerable height at the very least.

Nine Eyes and his Jolly Fellows made camp outside the walls the next day. The siege of Myr had begun.

**-ZeroRequiem-**

"The Jolly Fellows had more men than we expected," Rasporos said as they prepared for another game, eyes steeled with determination. "From four thousand like the Battleborne to five and a half thousand… a smaller Free Company must have signed on with Lys to reinforce them."

"Could it not be men from the Golden Company?" Lelouch asked as he helped set place the screen down the middle to obstruct his view of the Magister's side of the board, and vice-versa.

"The Golden Company is not known to split their strength," Rasporos said. "Besides, I have taken a look at the men who threaten us. None wore the many golden rings that denote years in the Golden Company."

"That sounds like a lot of gold to put on a man," Lelouch said. "A fortune for anyone who could best them in the field."

"_If _they can be bested. I have never heard it happen in my lifetime." He shuddered, and then took the first move. "They do not break contracts like other sellswords do, but gods preserve you if you try and break faith with them. Qohor learned this the hard way. It will cost us much to buy them to our side, but it can be done. Their contract with Lys lasts only a few days more, and we might reverse this poor fate."

"I am certain it will work out," Lelouch said. He paused, eyes flickering to his opponent before settling back on the board. His hand reached out and moved his first piece, the spearman, before continuing to speak, "The walls remain strong, so long as we are not betrayed."

Rasporos nibbled on a slice of pie. "The Lord of Battles is loyal to Myr, if not the magisters. He will not deliver us to the enemy."

"How are you certain?" Lelouch asked.

"Because Liomond Lashare is of our blood," Rasporos said. "He is descended from a great line of men, and even his father was a magister for three terms when he lived. Had he been inclined to the way of coin rather than the sword, he would have become a magister as well."

"A worthy lineage," Lelouch said, gesturing to Cici. "Speaking of, where does Cici come from? If I cannot have her, I might at least know where I can get someone similar to her."

"She is a strange one," Rasporos said. "Her manner of speech is Lorathi, yet her name is Braavosi. She has the hair of Tyrosh, but her eyes are Lysene. In truth, I do not know where she is from, though the merchant that sold her to me claimed her to be from Yunkai. It is a poor answer, I know, but I believe the vastness of her heritage is what allowed her to come up with the Myrish pie in all its forms."

"You cannot be blamed for not knowing. She is _unique_," Lelouch said. "How did she learn the Common Tongue of Westeros though?"

Rasporos shrugged. "She has always had an affinity for matters of tongue, and we do not lack visitors from across the narrow sea in Myr."

"That is fair enough," Lelouch said, and placed a horse in range of his king. "Morghulis, by the way."

Rasporos shook his head. "You ought to give me better odds. One thinks I am hardly a challenge for you anymore."

"Nonsense. I do enjoy our games."

"Of course you do," Rasporos said. "You win all the time. Just as well, Lashare has requested the Council vote on another matter. I will have my revenge tonight, young lord."

"I will be waiting," Lelouch said. That left him alone with Cici. "We have not shared words, you and I."

"A woman apologizes, my lord," Cici said, averting her golden eyes. "It is not this woman's place to speak her own thoughts, only the words of those she services."

Lelouch grabbed her arm. "I would know at least, where it is you think you come from."

"When a woman was a child," she said, "A woman dreamed she was from a far off land. Beyond the Bone Mountains, maybe even beyond YiTi and the Jade Sea. It was a land without peace, or happiness."

"We seem to have precious few of either as well," Lelouch said.

"Then perhaps I was not born so far away," Cici said, and scurried off.

_Not quite Lorathi after all, are you?_

**-ZeroRequiem-**

A city such as Myr had many markets, each with its own purpose. There was one for food and drink, and another for boats. The trade of slaves was catered to by many markets, divided by function. The greatest of these was the High Bazaar, a roofed enclosure built on elevated ground parallel to the Lense Hillock.

It was here the great crafts of Myr were bought and sold in bulk, from many-threaded carpets to aged nectar and fire wine. Fine tapestries and vivid paintings of great beauties, ancient names, and breathtaking scenes from a maester's books lined the streets.

On the highest point, visible from every tall building and high place, a wooden gallow towered. Eight magisters stood below it, dour looks etched on their face.

"Quite the stunning contrast, isn't it?" Lelouch asked. "The man has an eye for theater."

"Reminds me of _someone _I know," Donnall said, staring at him.

Lelouch ignored him.

Liomond Lashare stood before them on a platform, a stack of letters clenched in one hand and the other pointed at the bald Magister Parazhar. He raised his fist for all to see. "I have in my hands evidence of treason against the people of the city of Myr!" Lashare said. "Magister Parazhar has written letters to the First Magister of Lys."

"No crime!" Parazhar croaked out. "No crime to write a letter!"

"What are they saying?" Donnall asked. Lelouch summarized.

Lashare unfolded a letter and read, "'I write to you now that we might come to an arrangement of mutual benefit.' This wretch intended to hand over our city, and in exchange his wealth would be preserved." Lashare tore the letters into pieces. "Is this how free Myrmen ought to be treated, like common dredges to be discarded when it becomes _inconvenient_?"

A low booing undercut the murmurs from the crowd.

"Is the man mad? He just destroyed his own evidence," Donnall said.

Lelouch glanced about. "We're in the court of public opinion now. Evidence matters little and less than sentiment."

"The magisters," Lashare said, "have not been able to reach a judgment on the issue. As per the founding tenets of Myr, I now submit this matter before the people of Myr."

A stunned silence met his proclamation, and then-

"Guilty!" a man near the front screamed. "Treason!"

"Treason! Treason!"

"Criminal!"

More and more voices joined in, and soon the whole crowd spoke as one. Parazhar's shoulders sagged while the magisters whispered among them.

Magister Zoutos stepped forward, raising his hands. "People of the city of Myr, you have found Magister Parazhar, whom you have chosen to lead you, guilty of treason. The magisters have heard your judgment and accept. We will now discuss the matter of judgment."

"With respect, Magister Zoutos," Lashare said, "but it is the people who have proclaimed judgment. It ought to be them that proclaim his fate. What say you?"

"Death!"

"Hang him!"

"Hang! Let him hang for his crimes!"

"Well," Donnall said, "I don't need you to translate to know he's fucked. A crowd out for blood looks the same anywhere."

"Magisters of Myr are not hanged like common criminals," Lelouch said.

"Has anyone told Lashare that?" Donnall asked. "So fascinating as this excursion has been, I'm starving. Let's go get some food."

"When are you not hungry?"

Donnall scratched his cheek. "Have to keep my energy up. I have to spar with that cunt Chaseman twice as often, no thanks to you." They pushed their way through the pressing crowd.

"Are you trying to guilt me into paying for your meal?" Lelouch asked.

"Is it working?"

Lelouch reached for his purse. "I am, but just so you know, you're horrible at it. You have to hide your intent better."

"Hide my intent? From you?" Donnall asked. "What would be the point, Cousin. You read faces like books."

"You could at least try," Lelouch said.

"You're the talker between us. I just swing the sword."

Lelouch rolled his eyes, and he turned to the stallkeep. "Two slices of salted meat," he said in Myrish.

"And one of cheese," Donnall said.

"And one of cheese," Lelouch translated.

"Few minutes," the stallkeep said.

"Why is it you spend insist on that translator when you can already speak Myrish?" Donnall asked.

"I know a few words. That doesn't make me fluent," Lelouch said. "How are the men faring cooped up?"

Donnall shrugged. "Lord Wells has been drilling them hard, and no one's been caught sleeping with the women yet. Oh, Hughes did start a betting pool on you."

If the men weren't fighting, they were fucking. If they were neither fighting, nor fucking, they were gambling. "Of course he did. What about?"

"Whether you've bedded the green-haired girl yet," Donnall said.

Lelouch laughed. "You mean Cici? No, of course not. Whatever gave them that idea."

"They haven't quite realized you're a reprobate that likes staring at everything," Donnall said with a shit eating grin.

"Studying everything," Lelouch said.

"Right, _studying_ everything," Donnall said. "Like Myrish tongue work."

Lelouch accepted the slices from the stallkeep, and considered them. "You're making me regret paying for your meal."

"If you don't give it here, I'll drag you to the courtyard for a spar tomorrow, bright and early," Donnall said.

**-ZeroRequiem-**

The next day, young bravos dressed in red with gold trims paraded through the streets to a cheering crowd, and Lashare was greatest dressed atop his white charger.

"Only in fucking Essos can they celebrate while under siege," Donnall said.

"If we can call it that," Lelouch said. The situation was surreal enough with the army outside having made no attempts to take the walls. It was understandable given the Jolly Fellows did not have so large an advantage in numbers to make an attempt feasible. Still, he had expected them to try.

The outer layers of lace the men wore were ceremonially removed, and given to those that lined the streets. Bread was thrown too, alongside silver Myrish crafts. Young women wove between their ranks, dancing and clapping and singing. Lelouch spotted some of their sailors being dragged into the spectacle by the women, and others were served wines and slices of Myrish pies.

"The men must be getting restless," Lelouch said, "if they're being swayed so easily. The women are not much nicer to look at than common whores."

"Can you blame them? We've done nothing for several days now, and I'm certain they've gambled away most of their coin by now."

Lelouch untied the pouch on his waist and tossed it to Donnall. "Spread that out, and try to make it last for them," he said. "I have little coin left and we may be here for awhile."

"All hail Lelouch the Charitable," Donnall said. "Lelouch the Giver."

"Lelouch the Bankrupt," Lelouch said dryly. "Now off with you."

Bored men got into fights, fights they could not avoid with the situation so volatile. Myr was a city ready to explode in violence, hopefully directed at those outside rather than the people within it.

The Battleborne worked quickly, overrunning the Unsullied guarding Magister Parazhar's manse and seizing his assets before the man had finished hanging.

Now, the Council of Magisters was down a member and special elections had to be held. Lashare insisted they be held immediately, given the crisis the city faced. Few merchants had the coin lying about to host a spectacle, preferring to keep their wealth in land, slave, ships, and good. None would be able to match the elaborateness Lashare had just thrown before the vote was held.

The free men of Myr would acclaim Lashare magister before the day was over.

Lashare's first act was peace. An unusual choice for a man who made his living out of war, yet he was extolling the virtues of trade to the Council of Magisters.

"Was he not mere days ago saying Myr could not fall to the enemy? Now he seeks to treat with them," Lelouch said with a frown. "Liomond Lashare is a mystery of the highest order."

"I will admit it strange, but Lys' offer was not so onerous as we had expected," Rasporos said. "Some minor territorial concessions of tributaries in the Verdant Heel, and a token tribute in the form of Unsullied are not so terrible a burden."

"They did not want gold instead?" Lelouch asked. "Is that common?"

"Gold or goods is the preferred tribute of many, yet it is not unheard of to ask for slaves," Rasporos said. "The Unsullied will be gifted to the Jolly Fellows as compensation for the men they will leave behind to reinforce our defenses and to keep the order."

"So they might have a knife to your throat," Lelouch said.

"They can be… managed," Rasporos said. "Sellswords can be bought."

"Well, at least business can return as usual," Lelouch said. "I imagine Uncle will be pleased to know we might depart soon."

"...About that."

**-ZeroRequiem-**

"This cannot stand," Uncle said to the hundred or so fighting Velaryon men. These were the men-at-arms that would be relied on if their ships were ever assailed by pirates or sellsails. "That they barred us from our ships when at war, I could still stomach, but now they've made peace with Maelys the Monstrous and still we cannot leave!"

"What would you have us do?" Lelouch asked. "Lashare's men outnumber us in the city and have fortified the entrance to the docks."

"Regardless, I say we take back what's ours! Numbers do not decide everything!" Uncle said.

"No, but they certainly help," Lelouch said wryly.

"We will have the element of surprise!"

"Not if you keep shouting like that, we won't," Lelouch said.

Uncle growled. "Moreo, how many men do they have in the docks?"

"A hundred men would be my guess," Bluebeard said. "We would not need to overwhelm all of the Battleborne, merely those in our way."

_A local superiority in numbers to create a decisive breakthrough_. It was not tactically unsound. If they armed the sailors, they would have the weight of numbers to execute it. Yet… did he want to leave with unfinished business? The truth of Cici was still veiled to him, and Magister Rasporos would not release her despite his best efforts and incentives.

"The timing is not right," Lelouch said, raising a hand to stop protest before it began. "I am not saying we do _nothing_, but that we be patient to increase the odds of our success. Things will fall into a comfortable routine before you know it, and the guards will get complacent. Then, we will strike."

"Lord Velaryon speaks wise counsel," said Ser Tallfield. Ser Morren's younger brother did so more to spite Uncle than to support Lelouch, but he would take what support he could at a time like this. Every voice would count.

"He speaks _cowardice_," spat Ser Chaseman.

"Watch your tongue, ser," Donnall barked, hand on hilt, "or I will watch it for you!"

"I have watched him for a sennight, and he's wasted his time rubbing coins with copper counters," Chaseman said. "That is, if he isn't being led around by the cock. I've seen him make eyes at the green-haired serving wench. Women and merchants have made him weak!"

"That is no way to speak of your lord!" said Lord Wells.

"Keep silent!" Uncle bellowed. "That is my nephew you speak of, Ser Chaseman! Be grateful we have need of your blade, or I would have your head for your words!" He turned to Lelouch. "Is it true?"

"Of course not," Lelouch said.

"Then will you support an attack?"

Lelouch shook his head. "I cannot. We ought to wait."

His eyes narrowed. "We can afford no distractions," Uncle quoted, "not when the future of our house is at stake."

"My mind is clear. Believe me when I say that," Lelouch said.

A moment of silence passed. "Forgive me, nephew," Uncle Adamm said, "but this time I cannot."

Lelouch froze, like he'd been seized tight by a giant in winter, as his uncle turned to the crowd and asked who was with him.

"I will not wait here and twiddle my thumbs when there is work to be done," said Ser Harrock.

"You have my blade!" Chaseman said.

"This is madness! We owe our service to Lord Velaryon first and foremost!" said Donnall, pointing at Lelouch. "Here is our lord's son."

"And here is his brother," Ser Goodchair shot back, pointing. "Adamm Velaryon is a proven commander with battles to prove it." And Lelouch was not, went unspoken.

_How many men? _Lelouch thought, mind racing, heart pulsing. _How many men will stay with me? How many men need I draw away to convince uncle from this path? _How many men would choose a boy heir over a captain seasoned by years of hard seamanship and skirmishing?

Lelouch's throat felt tight as he thought of something, _anything_ to say that might step the tide.

These men were loyal to Driftmark, but who that meant in practice was muddier than the banks of the Trident after a storm. True, he was the heir to the Driftwood Throne, but it was also true these men saw him as a boy, not even sixteen. He'd fought no battles, won no glories, and Adamm Velaryon had both. He was also the Captain of Tides, Father's right hand man in matters of war at sea.

Father's order for this voyage had been ambiguous too, enough that Lelouch could claim to have commanded the voyage and present himself at court with a notch under his belt, but also so that an experienced hand rested on the rudder. They'd never foreseen, never thought this could happen.

_We've never disagreed on something so important so publicly_. Everything was usually settled by behind locked doors, before any of their lords even had an inkling of what their true thoughts were.

This… this was the first time they'd broken rank, and it was breaking the ranks of Driftmark.

As more and more of the lords and their knights and men-at-arms assented to assault, Lelouch found his mouth still scorched dry. _Two in three men at least_…

Lelouch was not blind to the fact that his preference for the bow over the sword, or his consorting with merchants sat less than well with some of their more conservative bannermen. It had just… it had never _mattered_ before. So long as his decisions were backed by his uncle, or at least there was no one of rank to countermand him, the malcontents were neutered.

But now, _now_, his uncle was a rallying point for those voices.

Not in his wildest dreams did he ever expect to have to fight family in this life as well, least of all his own uncle. True, it was not unheard of for uncles to wrestle the inheritance from their nephews, but this was _Uncle Adamm_. The man had taught Lelouch most anything he knew about sailing, was a father to him in ways Jaron Velaryon hadn't been.

His father had a few years left in him too despite his poor health. By then, Lelouch might have won some great victory, proven his worth, and secured a smooth succession against any who might have opposed him.

Donnall was with him, as was Hughes and most of the men-at-arms sworn directly to them. The Tallfields were opposed to Uncle, and the Brynes were not complete ingrates to turn on him after Lelouch had eased them from financial ruin. Wells was the only Lord truly loyal, still a northman at heart despite being the second generation born in Driftmark already.

But Swyftfoot, Harrock, Goodchair, and Chaseman all preferred to act, and their men began streaming out the room.

Lelouch grabbed his uncle's arm, stepping in close. "Uncle, I beg of you, do not do this," Lelouch said in a low voice, too low to be overheard.

"It has to be done. When we succeed, we will send word back to you," Uncle said, eyes hardening. "This will not be the end of us. This will not be the end of _you_, not even if it costs me my life. Tides take you."

"Where it flows," Lelouch said, completing that Driftmark seaman's goodbye. He watched his uncle walk out of the room, out of his life, and it _stung_ though he knew Adamm didn't do it out of malice.

Lelouch turned his eyes to those that remained true to him. "Scour the city. Bring every man and sailor here, and arm them with what we have on hand. Double the watch tonight. I must speak to Magister Rasporos about this."

The docks were not so far away they could not hear the shouts when battle was offered. They knew exactly when the battle ended too.

"I pray to the Mother for mercy," Lelouch murmured. "The Warrior for courage. The Smith for strength. I pray to the Crone for wisdom."

"This woman did not take you for a religious man," Cici said.

"Faith has its comforts in times of distress," Lelouch said. "Do you have faith, Cici?"

"This woman does not put her trust in gods," she said.

"What about in men?" he asked.

Cici eyed him. "That would depend on the man in question."

They sat in silence. Lelouch knew what was coming, anyone with half a mind would. To all appearances, he simply sat and waited, sipping his nectar wine and appreciating the flavor in the moments of peace he had left. But his mind continued to work. He thought of what he knew of the people of this city, the magisters, his uncle, of the sell swords and slaves. He thought of the layout of the city, and what he knew of their culture. Plans were formed, evaluated, and discarded. And as he began to hear the steps of the men marching towards him, he was ready.

Liomond Lashare marched up the street, accompanied by hundreds of men. Not young bravos who played at war, but hardened killers who lived by it. Their faces were hard and focused, and none more so than Lashare's who focused in on him. The air was heavy, but Lelouch let nothing show on his face. The mercenary caption stepped towards him with the vigor of a man half his age. This was a man who forged by war into a honed, strong blade.

But no matter how sharp and tempered the blade, how fine the craftsmanship or stained with blood the steel, it was the man who swung the sword.

Liomond Lashare marched up the street, accompanied by hundreds of men. Not young bravos who played at war, but hardened killers who lived by it.

"Magister Lashare, I see congratulations are in order," Lelouch said, a mask settling on his face as he raised a glass of nectar wine to the mercenary captain. "You have captured my treacherous uncle." His stomach twisted at the lies he spoke.

"He is not with you?" His voice was incredulous.

Lelouch scoffed. "I kept my men from aiding him, did I not? With a little more force, he may have succeeded. Praise the Seven that he did not. Tell me, does he still live?"

"He does," Lashare said.

"Unfortunate." Lelouch frowned. "Well, will you surrender him to me so that I might pay him back?"

"That will not be possible," Lashare said. "If you were so against your uncle, why did you not stop him?"

Lelouch shrugged. "He had the greater force, and no man is accursed as the kinslayer."

"This was not what I expected." Lashare sighed. "Your men will have to be disarmed while in my city, though you will keep your freedom."

"Whatever for, Magister Lashare?" Rasporos asked. "Lord Velaryon is an honored guest of my manse. It is not your right to strip him of arms, but mine."

Lashare tilted his head. "As you say, Magister Rasporos. Will you disarm them then?"

"I will not." Rasporos crossed his arms. "They have done no wrong. The son is not judged for the sins of the father, and it makes less sense to judge the nephew for his uncle's actions."

"They have threatened the peace of the city. It must be dealt with," Lashare said.

"It _has_ been dealt with by yourself. The instigators are in your custody, are they not?" Rasporos said.

"Most of them."

"Then I suggest, Magister Lashare, that you find those that have escaped you instead of accosting my guests in front of me," Rasporos said.

"The Council will hear of this," Lashare said.

"Yes, they will."

**-ZeroRequiem-**

"Is it strange," Lelouch mused, as thirty Unsullied and Velaryon men marched in ranks around them, "that I feel the siege more keenly now when we are at peace, than I ever did while men actually threatened to storm the city?"

"You ought to be thankful we can still walk freely like this even under heavy guard," Rasporos said.

A passing merchant shot them a dark look as his cart was forced roughly to the side so they could pass.

"In the last three days," Lord Wells said, "we've had six men killed in 'bar fights' and another eight injured. All of them in scuffles with the Battleborne." Well's eyes hardened. "Nevermind the men we _haven't _found."

"We can't keep this up," Lelouch said. "They're better at knife work than we are."

"It helps that they can blend in with the locals," Wells said. "Most of our men were raised in Westeros, and their manners mark them out clear as day even after we've removed the seahorse sigil from their clothes. Keeping the men in the manse has stopped us bleeding strength for now, but—"

Lelouch sighed. "But it's a stopgap, not a solution. Not to mention the morale. The men are getting antsy."

Wells nodded. "In my experience, men-at-arms who can't spend their coin on whores freely get that way."

"I know peace has been made, but now would be an excellent time for the Golden Company to attack," Lelouch said. "It might draw out Lashare."

"Or drive the people further into his arms," Wells said.

"Either way, it will not come to pass," Rasporos said. "The Golden Company has not renewed their contracts, yet still they occupy the Disputed Lands. Now, I hear a man named Adarys has been acclaimed Archon of Tyrosh as well. You know, I have ships that can take us from here."

"I will not leave without my uncle or my stolen ships," Lelouch said.

They stopped at the gilded gates of a manse. "Is this really the only way?" Rasporos asked

Lelouch shrugged. "He seeks to monopolize only salt. I know who I'd prefer."

The Unsullied guarding the manse were adorned in blue, with a golden trim. "Halt! State your business," the leader, distinguished by the extra spike on his cap, said.

"Magister Rasporos Basil and Lelouch Velaryon request an audience with Magister Zoutos Ayas."

"The others must stay here," the Unsullied said.

The manse was sparsely decorated for the richest man in Myr. That still meant it was twice the size of Rasporos' and wonders from as far as Yi Ti were treated like common wooden furnishing.

Zoutos was tending to the green-petaled halemin flower in his garden. A dozen collared slaves and a girl that shared his high cheekbones waited beside him. She looked no older than Alarra.

"Grandfather," the freckled girl said, "we have guests."

Zoutos did not answer, content to keep clip away at the thorns that riddled the halemin's stem. A minute passed before Zoutos nodded to himself and handed the blade to a slave. "Leave us," he said.

His attendants, minus the girl, bowed before scattering. "It has been many years since you've visited me in my own manse, Magister Rasporos," Zoutos said. "These are desperate times indeed. This must be your guest, the Velaryon?"

"Lelouch Velaryon, Magister Zoutos," Lelouch said. "I wanted to thank you personally-"

"Thank me?" Zoutos repeated.

"Magister Rasporos tells me you voted with him, and swayed the Council to rule in my favor," Lelouch said.

"Oh, I didn't do that for you," Zoutos said. "It was to teach that upstart Lashare a lesson, but you are welcome for it. If that is all, you may leave."

"Grandfather, mind your manners," the girl said.

"It pleases me to know you inherited your mother's courtesies, as well as her beauty, Omorfia," Rasporos said.

"You are too old by far to be courting my granddaughter, Rasporos," Zoutos said. "I mislike bandying words. Tell me what you want, and get out. Or just get out. I don't care much either way."

"You wished to teach Lashare a lesson," Lelouch said before Rasporos could speak, "but I doubt he has taken that lesson to heart."

Zoutos turned to face him. "What would you know of it? You are new to Myr."

"The great game plays much the same whether we are in Westeros or Essos," Lelouch said. "Lashare has more men than the magisters put together. That gives him power over your life."

"A Magister of Myr is not so vulnerable like you petty lords are to your Targaryen King," Zoutos said.

"Because you are each limited to a hundred fighting slaves," Lelouch said. "Lashare has broken the spirit of that agreement by being the leader of twenty-five hundred sellswords."

"Eight thousand," Zoutos corrected. "I have received word that Nine Eyes is returning with his Jolly Fellows from subduing the lesser cities. They have left behind the Unsullied contingent that was granted to them, in order to keep order. A blind man could see Nine Eyes and Lashare are in accord."

Lelouch stepped forward. "Then you must see the peril you face. Every passing day sees Lashare's power grow. Something must be done before it is too late."

"I am aware," Zoutos said. "The Council will vote to bar the entry of Nine Eyes on the morrow. I trust you will not oppose me in this matter, Rasporos?"

"I will vote with you," Rasporos said through gritted teeth.

"It is not _enough_," Lelouch said. "Even now, Lashare has more men than all of us in the city. He may defy the Council whenever he pleases. He has a _monopoly _on violence."

"Lashare would not dare," Zoutos said.

Lelouch looked him in the eye. "Magisters of Myr do not hang like common criminals."

"The people—-"

"Let us not pretend," Lelouch said, "that the people have ever been consulted for matters of import."

Zoutos frowned. "What would you have us do then?"

"Myr is a sinking ship," Rasporos said. "It is time to cut our losses."

Zoutos' eyes widened. "You want to abandon the city?"

"Would you rather die in it?" Rasporos asked.

"Lashare controls the prisons, the docks, and the gates. There is no escaping," Zoutos said. "And to be seen doing so would further incite the people against us. They are our only shield now."

"That they can protect you is a lie," Lelouch said.

"And of our wealth?" Zoutos asked, clenching his fists.

"Load them up into ships," Lelouch said. "Load as many jewels as can be carried, and leave."

Zoutos rubbed his face. "Omorfia?"

"The wealth of the magisters is in land, craftsmen, and industry," Omorfia recited. "Coin and pretty things account little for it."

"Then bring the slaves," Lelouch said. "Industry can be rebuilt. Land can be bought. Your lives are not so cheaply had."

"This is easy for you to say," Zoutos said. "But if someone asked you to leave your castle and lordship, would you be so quick to agree?"

Lelouch put on a contemplative face. "I have a sister back home about Omorfia's age. Her name is Alarra. If it might spare her life, I would give it all up in a heartbeat."

Zoutos' shoulders sagged. "How would we go about this, hypothetically?"

"For starters, you might submit to their whims and welcome Nine Eyes in," Lelouch said. Then his smile became all teeth. "How did that song go again? 'So the drunk slept in the sea'?"

**-ZeroRequiem-**

The sound of feasting and fucking could be heard across the city. Nine Eyes had been welcomed with open arms by the magisters of Myr and a night of celebration proclaimed from every street corner.

The familiar drumbeat of Driftdance echoed across Magister Rasporos' manse.

"Three minutes," Lelouch said, stringing his longbow. "Get ready to move."

Donnall nodded without a word.

"A woman reminds the honored guest that Magister Rasporos remains in the clutches of Nine Eyes," Cici said.

"It is the other way around," Lelouch said. A minute passed them by. "Tell me, do you ever dream?"

"A woman dreams of many things," Cici said.

"What of freedom?" Lelouch asked. "In Westeros, there are no slaves."

"There are many free and freedmen in Essos. Are they happier for it?" Cici asked.

"Some are," Lelouch said.

"A comforting guarantee," she said drily.

"Then do you dream of happiness?" Lelouch asked, turning to face her.

"Does not everyone dream of happiness?"

He peered into her eyes, into her soul. "Are you happy here? Answer truly, and I will not pester you any longer."

"That would make a woman very happy indeed," she said. He kept her gaze and Cici blinked first. "...But I cannot say I am happy here, Lelouch Lamperouge."

The world stilled around them. "You remember," he whispered.

"I remember," she agreed, and her eyes turned hollow, sad, "_everything_. I saw you betrayed and beaten. I saw you die."

"We had a contract," Lelouch said.

"That was from a different time, a different world," Cici said.

"I know. You know." Lelouch smiled. "Hasn't it always been that way, Witch?"

"I have no magic to give you," she said. "The power of kings here is… different. Beyond my purview."

Lelouch held out his hand to her. "I remember different terms. I promised you would not die unhappy. I intend to see it through in this life at least."

"Your boldness has only grown with death, Lelouch," Cici said. "Do not promise me what you cannot be certain of. You may yet die."

"I won't," Lelouch said. He kept his hand out. "_I won't_."

"There is no immortality for you to take," she said.

"That was never the point between us," he replied.

She took his hand. "If you die tonight, I will be very cross. Asking a woman to follow you across worlds twice would be presumptuous, even for you."

Lelouch pressed his dagger into her hands. "To keep you safe tonight," he said.

"I'm not the one straying farther from the ships."

**-ZeroRequiem-**

Aim.

Donnall played quite the convincing drunk. He even hummed a popular Myrish sea shanty as he stumbled towards the pair of guards, spilling a bit of wine on his shirt for good effect, before dropping to a knee.

Draw.

One of the guards scowled as he walked up to Donnall. "Get a move on, boy!"

Loose.

The arrow lodged itself into the soft, fleshy throat of the other guard as Donnall shoved his dagger in the first.

From the shadows and dark corners, Velaryon men in brown drabs surged forward. Donnall snatched the keys and opened the doors to the underground cells. Myr's lack of proper fortifications left their prison a poor one at withstanding assault.

"Open the cells, quickly!" Lelouch grabbed a nearby torch and waved it in the faces of the shackled men. He recognized many of them, but his uncle's was nowhere to be seen. "Where is he?"

"We've gone through all of the cells, he's not here," Donnall said. "We have to go."

"I won't leave my uncle," Lelouch hissed.

"We can't risk being caught," Donnall said.

"He was your father."

"He was a shit father," Donnal said, then in a smaller voice, "and he betrayed you. Come on!"

They emerged from the underground to the sound of laughter. Lelouch turned his eyes towards Lashare.

"I thought I might find you here tonight," Lashare said. "Your uncle isn't here, in case you didn't already know."

Lelouch narrowed his eyes. "Take him!"

Three Driftmark spears charged at him.

Lashare whistled, and a barrage of crossbow bolts from the roofs pincushioned them. "Is that all?"

"Shield wall! Shield wall!" Donnall screamed, picking up a fallen buckler and pushing Lelouch behind him. The rest of their men bunched together, locking shields above their heads. "We have your friend, Lashare!"

"I wouldn't exactly call Nine Eyes a friend," Lashare said. "More a stepping stone."

"We'll trade him for my uncle," Lelouch said. "At the docks."

The Lord of Battles tilted his head. "What makes you think I want to bargain? I could take him back by force easily enough."

"My men will kill him before that happens," Lelouch said.

Lashare smiled. "All the better for me."

A rain of bolts fell on their shields.

"It was all too easy to read them, you know," Lashare said. "The magisters are a predictable lot. Old men who close ranks when threatened and love their gold dearly. Imagine my surprise when they offer to throw me a feast instead of a fight. Far too generous, far too _convenient_."

Lelouch's fingers numbed. "You knew we would try this."

"I did," Lashare said, tipping his head. "I have to thank you for it really."

"Why?"

"You've given me all the pretext I need. The magisters I catch will be hanged on the morrow for treason. Those that get away will be branded enemies of Myr. Siding with a foreigner to seize our ships? There's no explaining that," Lashare said.

Another volley struck.

_Twenty seconds between shots, _Lelouch thought. _Too slow for Myrish crossbows._

"I was born to rule this city, "Lashare said. "With the magisters dead or fled, there will be none left to contest me."

"You could have seized power well before this," Donnall said, eyes shifting from side to side.

Lelouch squeezed Donnall's shoulder with three fingers. Prepare to scatter after the next volley.

Donnall nodded, and whispered to the men beside him.

"To rule a city through force alone is easy, but brittle. If my authority is earned through the death of my enemies, will not others think to do the same to me?" Lashare asked. "But to be acclaimed by free men of their own volition, how many can claim such? How many dare?"

"Few and less," Lelouch answered. The quarrels thudded against their shields.

"_Legitimacy_," Lashare mused. "Such a fickle, useful illusion, is it not? Tell me-"

"Now!" Donnall said. They broke into a run.

"Oh do stay and chat," Lashare called out. "My men do enjoy your company!"

Myr was a storm of violence around them. Fat Unsullied men and Jolly Fellows slaughtered each other with spears. Slaves died in the droves to crossbowmen lining the roofs. Houses burned. _People_ burned.

Lelouch's chest burned. They ran and ran and killed.

Myr was fire and blood.


	7. Scorch

**Chapter 7: Scorch**

The seahorse burned on the hill, its silk aglow as it swayed with the violent winter nights' winds.

"The Lense Hillock is lost," Lelouch said. With it went their chances of holding the docks for much longer. Lashare would not hesitate to send crossbows to harass them as soon as he could. "Ser Bryne and Hughes have begun the retreat."

Donnall grimaced. "The forward lines under Ser Tallfield have repulsed another wave, but they report sightings of a larger muster."

"I am not surprised. Lashare kept the bulk of his men away to keep them from ambush, and now are brought to bare against us," Lelouch said, watching a line of slaves laden with chests board the _Merling Wind_. "How many of the magisters have made it to us?"

"Besides myself?" Zoutos said. "Rasporos and Glossos."

"With Nine Eyes?" Lelouch asked.

"Yes, with your captive, though I do not see why you insisted on taking him alive. They will pay no ransom for his life, and from what you've told me, Lashare prefers him dead," Zoutos said.

"He has his role to play," Lelouch said and sighed. "Three magisters out of eight… I did not think all of them would make it, but I had hoped to save the greater number."

"The slaves from Kazhare's manse say the Battleborne stormed their gates before the fighting even began," Zoutos said. "That so many of us did not escape suggests treachery to me."

"Who would side with Lashare after all he has done to disparage the Council?"

Zoutos sneered. "I can think of a few. Perhaps Gogolos or Tathtarra. They've always put short term gains over their long term good."

Fucking copper counters. "I did not expect you to still be with us, Magister Zoutos. When you put Omorfia on the first ship out—"

"I am not like Rasporos to abandon my positions so quickly. I will see this night through," Zoutos said.

Lelouch could not help but feel respect for the man. "How many ships are left?"

"Thirty galleys and some merchant ships. Most of the war vessels and trading ships have departed already, as we agreed, though I cannot say how many of them will make it to Driftmark. They were not stocked to feed so many people for such a voyage, and the winds tonight-"

"We can worry about that later. There is little to be done about it either way," Lelouch said, picking up his longbow. "Get on the _Season of Tides_. We will leave soon."

"What of you?" Zoutos asked.

"The next push will be decisive. My bow has not seen the end of its use yet," Lelouch said. He turned to his cousin. "Light them up."

"We still have some time," Zoutos said.

"You know how long it takes to burn a ship? It'll be too late if we wait for the enemy to be on us."

Donnall did not move. "My place is by your side, or in the shield wall. I am your sword."

"Then do as I say," Lelouch said. His eyes softened, and he placed a hand on his shoulder. "Please, Cousin. There will be plenty of glory to be had in the coming months, and I will need you most then. I have lost enough family to this city. Do not make me risk more."

Donnall nodded reluctantly. "I'll start on the far end of the dock, let the wind do some work."

Lelouch took his place on some stacked crates where their archers had massed and wrinkled his nose at the seaward breeze. The smell of smoke and shit was suffocating.

"My lord," Ser Tallfield said, picking him out easily despite his plain garbs, "you have not departed."

_How can I, after what my uncle wrought? _Lelouch thought. How many men might waver if he did not prove himself here? How many would abandon him in the next fight?

Empty words and pretty gestures were necessary, but not sufficient.

"Loyal men still fight and die in my name out there," Lelouch said. "I could not save my uncle, but I will not leave without them too."

Tallfield grinned. "Aye, we'll let these sellsword fucks taste Driftmark steel!"

"The old!" Lelouch screamed. "The true!"

"The brave!" came the hoarse reply of two score men.

"Ready to reap!"

The sellswords formed a shield wall of over a hundred men and advanced from the far side of the boulevard.

"Born for battle!"

It was a slow, methodical march that kept their lines intact and would stop their arrows from doing real harm. They'd have to break ranks once they met the makeshift barricade of wagons and tables, but by then the archers could not loose for fear of hitting their own men.

He needed to make a gap. "Loose at will!" Lelouch pointed to four of the men. "With me! Quickly!" He led them to the _Season of Tides _and said, "Grab the ballista! One of you, bring the bolts!"

They returned with a minute to spare and Tallfield understood the intent immediately. "Archers, hold!"

Lelouch scurried up the crate and judged the distance to the center of the formation, before returning to manually aim it.

The first projectile struck the dense mass of men, coming down at an angle to skewer the head of a man and the chest of the one behind him.

"Archers, loose!" Tallfield said. The well-aimed shots rained down on the sellswords, exploiting the gap to maim a few more men.

Untrained as their crew was, it took a full minute and a half to reload the ballista. In an open field, the sellswords could've scattered, but here they were so densely packed there was nowhere to go unless they broke formation.

It took a few more rounds, but break they did. The sergeant must've realized they could not sustain their losses.

So they broke formation and charged straight at them as a mob. _Gut the other man before he guts you. _

Cursing, Lelouch picked up a spear. _The longer your stick, the longer your reach. _He pushed his way to the front, right before the barricade, and thrust upwards, piercing the first man to climb over. "And the sooner you can kill him," Lelouch recited his uncle's words under his breath.

For a moment, it seemed the Driftmark men might hold, but then the weight of numbers told. They had not thinned them enough.

The line between sellswords and men-at-arms blurred as a furious, bloody melee began.

It was a flurry of screams and desperate stabbing to Lelouch and he found himself pushed back and back again. The man with a bloodied yellow shield and yellower, crooked teeth growled.

Lelouch trusted his spear and found it pushed away with a shield. He had misjudged the weight behind his attack. The momentum forced him to drop his spear or be speared himself by Yellow Teeth's knife.

He drew his sword—

Yellow Teeth tackled him before he could, and stabbed at his face with the dagger. Lelouch brought his left hand up and his vision whitened from the pain. Even half-blind, he pushed back, supporting his left hand with his right.

It did nothing but delay. Yellow Teeth pressed down with both hands now, and Lelouch screamed, watching the blade push through his left palm, inch by agonizing inch. Closer towards his face, towards death.

Yellow Teeth was the product of a thousand cutthroats perpetually at war with a thousand other cutthroats. He was just a boy who'd dreamed.

Yellow Teeth snarled. "Die—"

The pressure eased. Lelouch blinked, staring at the knife, _his _knife, protrude through Yellow Teeth's throat.

Yellow Teeth's deadweight collapsed, and he struggled to push the man's corpse off him.

Cici huffed, pulling the dagger out. "I told you not to die tonight."

"Thanks," Lelouch croaked out. The battle around them was dying down. At some point, Donnall had led the sailors ashore to reinforce their defense and Ser Bryne's party returned to hit the sellswords in the back. The numbers shifted in their favor and their enemies were fleeing.

"Here," Cici said, handing him the knife hilt first. "It seems you need to be kept safe far more than I do."

"Keep it," Lelouch said, lifting his left hand for her to see. "I've found a new one."

"Victory! Victory to Driftmark!"

"Pull back to the ship! Let Myr burn!" he heard Donnall shout.

Cici shot him a worried look.

"It won't kill me," Lelouch said.

"It won't kill you _yet_," Cici said. "It would be my luck to have you die of infection after I've had to save you."

"Not that I'm not grateful, but I thought you were on the ship with Magister Rasporos," Lelouch asked.

"I escaped," she said.

"You escaped? Just like that?"

Cici shrugged, putting his arm around her shoulder as they staggered onto the _Season of Tides_. "I'm good at hiding when I want to."

The ship set said as the world burned down all around it. Lelouch sank to his knees, leaning against the rail and closed his eyes.

Myr was fire and blood.

**-ZeroRequiem-**

Lelouch woke with a start.

"Easy there," Donnall said. "How'd you almost die to a man with a knife when you had a spear _and_ a shield?"

"He fought better I guess," Lelouch said.

Donnall snorted. "No shit. I'm dragging your ass to the courtyard every morning after this."

Lelouch raised his left hand, now bandaged and absent a knife. "It might have to wait."

"He's right handed," Cici said. "He doesn't need two hands to fight with a sword."

"See, the slave woman knows better than you," Donnall said.

"Her name is Cici," Lelouch said.

"Well Cici, you have my profound thanks for saving this _idiot_ last night," Donnall said.

"Thanks are not necessary," Cici said, checking on his hand before nodding to herself. "No signs of infection."

"She's a healer? I thought she was just a translator," Donnall said.

"I'm a woman of many talents," she said.

Lelouch struggled to sit up and Cici sighed as she helped him. "Do we have a cyvasse board lying around?" Lelouch asked.

Donnall frowned. "Are you feeling alright?"

"I need to think," Lelouch said. "Playing helps me think."

"I'll go look for one," Cici said, standing up. She returned minutes later with a set, placing it on the side table. "Magister Rasporos is not here yet. I can play with you? I have seen you play enough times to grasp the basic tenets."

Lelouch nodded. "I will play—"

"Black," Cici said with a smile. It was difficult setting up the board with only a hand, but Cici was patient with him. "You have the right to choose."

"You..." Lelouch paused. "I will play first."

Cici tilted her head. "You do not play first when you can choose. Not in the many games I've witnessed, not ever really."

"I think it time to reconsider my strategy," Lelouch said. The game went swiftly, though Cici played better than he expected. She put up a valiant, if doomed, defense of her king that crumbled from the onslaught of his vicious blitz.

There was a knock on the door. The magisters three, Zoutos, Glossos and Rasporos, entered behind Ser Bryne. "You have guests, my lord," Ser Bryne said.

"We have won a victory," Magister Glossos said.

"Victory?" Lelouch repeated, his mouth tasting of ash. "Is that what we're calling this? Another victory like this and we will be ruined."

"We _have _succeeded beyond our expectations," Glossos said. "Even with the ships that were blown off course last night, we still have ninety-four Myrish ships with us."

"How many of them are fit for war?" Lelouch asked.

"Less than half," Zoutos said. "It is difficult to get a proper count while we are at sea."

"Why do you ask?" Rasporos asked.

"Because this is not over," Lelouch said.

Glossos raised a brow. "Has there not been enough bloodshed?"

"A mercenary has made himself king of your _Free_ City, and you want to do nothing?" Lelouch asked.

"My lord, if your skill at cyvasse is any indication, you are a great commander, but war is not the only means available to us," Glossos said. "We can negotiate."

"I am a better commander than you will ever be, Glossos. Do you know why?" Lelouch asked. "That you think cyvasse comes close to real war is your true undoing."

Glossos flushed. "I will return to my ship. I will not commit myself to this folly."

Not that the magister could truly untangle his men or had enough control on any of ships to consider _leaving_ the ragtag fleet. "Do you two feel the same as well?" Lelouch asked.

Rasporos smiled sadly. "I did warn you, didn't I? Myr is a sinking ship. I will join you to Driftmark to re-establish myself, but I am afraid I do not see any profit to be had from this venture. Come, Cici."

Cici did not move. "There are no slaves in the Sunset Kingdoms."

Rasporos frowned. "We are not in the Sunset Kingdoms."

"You are on the ship of one," Donnall said. "Our laws hold here."

Rasporos turned to Lelouch. "Will you let this stand?"

"I offered a fine sum for her in Myr," Lelouch said, closing his eyes. "You should have taken that deal. It will not go any better for you when we land in Driftmark. Your slaves, by the rightful laws of gods and men, will be freed." These were laws few lords enforced, but Rasporos was magister no more, and Myr belonged to the enemy. He had the means, and they had given him a motive.

"This is outrageous!" he said. "I will take my ships and leave now then!"

"You are welcome to," Lelouch said. "There is the matter of finding a ship that wholly belongs to you though."

"What do you mean?" Rasporos asked.

"Our departure was a rushed affair. Slaves from different magisters boarded the same ships. It is Velaryon men that captain many of these ships and protect them. Those people obey me, not you, and so they will continue towards Driftmark as we had agreed," Lelouch said.

Rasporos' eyes turned to fury. "You! You tricked me!"

"I offered terms and you agreed," Lelouch said. "That you did not grasp their implications is on your head, not mine. You are, of course, free to try and sort things out. Do you have an opinion on this, Ser Bryne?"

"The winds were harsh last night. We are three days off from Tarth, and are in desperate need of supplies," Bryne said. "We will be at Driftmark in a sennight."

"So let us consider your options," Lelouch said. "You have three days if you wish to leave. Most likely, you will do so with only a fraction of what you own, and have the rest taken by pirates as you lack fighting men. In the unlikely event you evade capture, you have few experienced captains who might guide you to a safe port so the threat of starving to death at sea is very real for you. I could seize every earthly thing you possessed right now, and no one would bat an eye, but I have no wish to be a tyrant when other paths are yet open to us."

"You are not Lord of Tarth," Zoutos said.

"No, but my uncle is."

"This is extortion."

"_This_," Lelouch said, "is a negotiation."

Zoutos smirked. "What is it you want then?"

"Commitment," Lelouch said. "I will not suffer letting Lashare rule Myr. I will not suffer seeing my uncle a captive of a lowlife thug, and wars are expensive."

"It all comes back to coin in the end," Zoutos said. "It would be cheaper to offer a ransom."

Lelouch spoke in a low voice. "Ransom? _Ransom_? My uncle was taken prisoner by an upjumped sellsword. Shall I let every bandit and thief with a knife brandish it against my family's _throat_?"

"You seem to be forgetting," Rasporos said, "that we are not as rich as we once were. Even if you seized everything on our ships, it would not be enough."

"You have a reputation, an image," Lelouch said. "That is a _key_ that opens doors otherwise unavailable to me."

"The Iron Bank," Rasporos said. "You want us to be guarantors?"

Lelouch nodded.

"You ask a great deal from us without offering anything in return," Zoutos said. "All risk is undertaken by the possibility of reward."

"Your prize," Lelouch said, "will be Myr itself. You will be kings of a Free City should we win."

The two shared a look. "Then what would be your take from this venture?"

"_Revenge_," he snarled. "Do this, and you will keep all you possess."

**-ZeroRequiem-**

Nine Eyes had his wrists and ankles bound tightly with rope. Even still, Donnall insisted on being in the room when he was interrogated. One did not become a captain of sellswords without a heavy dose of vicious cruelty and a propensity for violence.

"I thought you'd be taller," Nine Eyes said as he assessed Lelouch. "To be beaten by a boy and a merchant… at least tell me you've killed a man before?"

"I've ordered many men killed," Zoutos said. "But to bloody my own hands? Reprehensible."

Nine Eyes rolled his two eyes. "Typical merchants. What about you?"

"I have killed before," Lelouch said.

"Ever fucked a girl before?"

"I don't see how this is relevant," Lelouch said.

He sighed. "That's a no then."

Donnall frowned, and slapped him across the face with his gauntlet.

Nine Eyes spat out blood, and grinned. "I'm a dead man, aren't I?"

"Lashare's rise to power, the Golden Company's rapid advance through the Disputed Lands, the sack of Tyrosh… it has been altogether too _convenient_," Lelouch mused, ignoring him. "Ever since the fall of Valyria, the balance of power between the Free Cities has been kept. If ever a power grew overmighty, its neighbors would be quick to band together and pull it back down."

Nine Eyes smile became all teeth. "_Fascinating_. Do go on."

Donnall showed him the back of his palm, but Lelouch raised a hand to stop him. "Four times the Blackfyre have taken arms to seize the Iron Throne. Twice they have invaded Westeros from across the narrow sea. Fewer and fewer lords have flocked to the Blackfyre cause with every failed attempt, and I say this as the great grandson of a Blackfyre rebel. Maelys Blackfyre must know that if he is to seize kingship, he can no longer rely on the allies of his predecessors to see it done."

"Where are you going with this?" Zoutos asked.

"Patience, magister. I am gathering my thoughts," Lelouch said. "Tyrosh has a new Archon, does it not?"

"Alequo Adarys, the Silvertongue," Zoutos said. "A shrewd dealer and as vicious as any inhabitant of Serpentholm. His fire brigade will assemble at the first cry of alarm, but do nothing while Adarys offers to buy the burning building at a miserable price."

"Tyrosh has many, many ships as well and is closest to the Stepstones, which Maelys will need control over if he is to succeed in crossing with a large host," Lelouch said. "He would be a fool not to tip the scales in his favor, but to take Tyrosh so quickly he must have had help from the inside."

"The Spotted Tom and that Fossoway knight were charged with the defense of Tyrosh," Zoutos said.

Lelouch frowned. "A kinslayer and an oathbreaker, both of them Westerosi exiles. Not men known for their loyalty, and if Maelys could offer them something to come to his side…"

"Maelys could make them lords of their family holdings?" Ser Bryne said.

"Or even make them Lords Paramount of the Westerlands and the Reach. Such a prize would tempt any man to break their word," Lelouch said, and turned towards Nine Eyes. "Then we have you and your Jolly Fellows."

"Finest traitors you'll ever meet," Nine Eyes said cheerily.

"You were in the employ of Lys alongside Maelys and you were charged with laying siege to Myr," Zoutos said.

"Only it was a ruse and you were working with Lashare to seize the city," Lelouch said. "Had the Golden Company marched on Myr, it would have been an easy victory. Myr would have thrown open its gates and sued for peace."

"We would have paid a generous sum to avoid sack," Zoutos confirmed.

"Instead, Maelys marched many miles towards Tyrosh," Lelouch said. "That means he trusted you not to betray him."

"Me? Betray him? I would never," Nine Eyes said. "Is there any man more honorable than one who kills for coin?"

Lelouch shook his head. "Actions speak true. At the end of the day, neither you nor Lashare marched on the Disputed Lands and Maelys' exposed flank, when it could have easily been done. Maelys knew of your plans, if he did not outright approve of them."

"Maybe the First Magister of Lys got greedy, ordering him to march on Tyrosh," Nine Eyes said.

Zoutos narrowed his eyes. "A great stroke of luck if this is all coincidence."

"It worked didn't it? We have both cities now."

"Greed has ever been the downfall of men," Lelouch said. "And yet, the Golden Company did not renew its contract with Lys."

"_Maelys has gathered an unlikely band of three to his banner. Pirate lords and exiled princes flock to him and call themselves his allies._"

"You were wrong, Uncle," Lelouch said sadly. "It was not just a band of three."

"It was a band of nine," Nine Eyes said.

"Nine… Maelys would need ships to cross. Among the pirates, Samarro Saan and the Old Mother have the largest fleets," Lelouch said. "Nearly large enough to rival a Free City on their own, or so my uncle said."

"In numbers, though in a pitched fight at sea they'd break," Nine Eyes said. "As for the last, can you figure it out?"

"Xhobar Qhoqua, the Ebon Prince," Lelouch said. "He's famed to have smuggled goldenheart bows from his homeland, a thousand pieces in total."

"Very clever," Nine Eyes said, tilting his head. "But what is it we want? Men must fight for something."

"Coin, of course," Donnall said.

"No, coin could be had without allying like this. A band of cutthroats herded together would take time and effort and an offer of great prizes," Lelouch said. "Maelys wants to be king. Spotted Tom and the Bad Apple, we presume, were offered Lord Paramountancy under him. The Silvertongue is now sole ruler of a Free City, and all the lands that pay tribute to it, and Liomond Lashare can claim likewise with Myr."

"Xhobar Qhoqua is an exiled prince of the Summer Isles," Zoutos said, "and the Saan Family is of the old stock of Lys."

"The Old Mother is a pirate, and the Stepstones has been their domain for decades," Lelouch said. "That leaves you, Nine Eyes."

He laughed. "I wanted Pentos."

"You have no claim to it," Donnall said.

"I have an army of killers and acquaintances with armies of killers," Nine Eyes said. "That's my claim for you."

"_Had _an army," Lelouch said. "You have nothing now, not even your life."

"I suppose you're right," Nine Eyes said.

"You seem remarkably calm for a man facing death," Lelouch said.

Nine Eyes shrugged. "I've been facing death for years. It comes with the line of work I do. I gambled with this Band of Nine business, and I lost. I own up to that." Nine Eyes had a steely glint in his eyes. "That fucker Lashare sold me out, didn't he? I saw bits of that fighting in Myr and there's no way his men could have fought like that with all the drinking and whoring that went on. So they knew what you were up to, and I wasn't told, and here we are."

"Lashare knew," Lelouch said.

"So what do you want from me? I assume there's a reason you haven't cut my throat."

"I need a witness," Lelouch said. "The king must hear of this. Testimony from a conspirator would make it easier to convince them." _And I will need more than Driftmark ships and Myrish coin to see my uncle saved and Lashare toppled, especially with allies as formidable as the Golden Company._

"I want a quick death," Nine Eyes said. "None of this hanging or torture. A beheading, quick and clean and relatively pain free."

"You're making this rather easy for me," Lelouch said.

"It's about making it easy for _me_," Nine Eyes said. "I was told I'd get to carve out a kingdom for myself when I signed up. Clearly that's not happening anymore, so why the bleedin' hell should I care if those other cunts get theirs, yeah? I sign a written confession, and you behead me today?"

Lelouch frowned. "Your testimony would be better if you lived to tell it."

Nine Eyes snorted. "I'm not an idiot. I go to King's Landing and my life won't be in your hands anymore."

"We could just keep him alive," Donnall said.

"You do that," Nine Eyes said, "and I'll deny everything."

_A denial would damn my cause._ "A written confession then, marked by your signet ring," Lelouch said, standing up to leave.

"So you take orders from Maelys then?" Donnall asked behind him.

"What?" Nine Eyes said. "Fuck no. That ugly bastard can go bugger himself. It's really more not getting in each other's way than an _alliance_. I helped out Lashare in Myr because he'd offered to help me take Pentos afterwards. He had this whole plan about hiding fifteen hundred men with my Jolly Fellows to pretend he'd been whipped in a fight, then we put the place to 'siege', if you can call it that. I'm surprised any of you believed it really."

**-ZeroRequiem-**

Ten thousand souls arrived on Tarth, give or take a hundred. It was fortuitous this winter had a light touch, or half would have succumbed to hunger and the chills. Uncle Stephas charged the magisters quite the sum, fully aware that they were desperate, and had called his banners to be safe. The time of the Sea Snake was not so long ago, when Myrish refugees fleeing crisis turned pirate and occupied the island.

The Targaryens had dragons back then to burn them out, root and stem.

"That is quite the adventure you've had," Uncle Stephas said. "Grim tidings, this business with Myr."

"It will be war, Uncle," Lelouch said. "The Iron Throne cannot afford to ignore the threat Blackfyre poses with an army at his back and allies in control of two Free Cities. If the Golden Company are successful in taking the Stepstones-"

"They'd be a stone's throw away from Tarth," Uncle Stephas said.

"It would be the next logical step of an invasion from Essos. There is still a chance to seize the initiative, and mayhaps prevent the horrors of war from coming to your island," Lelouch said.

Uncle Stephas listened, and nodded. "A bold plan."

"But you have your doubts," Lelouch said.

"You know how many ships I can call on," Uncle Stephas said. "Combined with Driftmark's fleet, it would still not be enough to oppose two hundred corsair vessels and countless others from Tyrosh."

"We will have the Myrish ships as well," Lelouch said.

"Then there's the problem of manning these ships," Uncle Stephas said. "Tarth can feed a great many people, but we cannot summon armies from thin air. These Myrmen you have are craftsmen and slaves, not warriors."

"We might call on Lord Wendwater to aid us," Lelouch said. "Though they might not have been on the best of terms, Uncle Adamm was still his good-brother."

"And can your own men be relied upon?" Uncle Stephas said. "Many chose _poorly_ on Myr."

"Would you like to watch it handled? Perhaps then you might have a measure of faith in me," Lelouch said.

He called for his men to be assembled in the courtyard. The loyalists standing tall, heads held high; his uncle's men with slumped shoulders and downcast eyes. Lelouch called the knights and lords that proved themselves to stand before him, one by one. He praised their valor, their skill at arms, and their men.

_Necessary, but not sufficient_.

Next, he called Hughes. "I heard you lost a hand in the fighting, Hughes," Lelouch said.

Hughes nodded, face a sullen visage. "It is as you say, my lord."

"Ser Bryne says you fought bravely," Lelouch said, "for _me_. You ought to hold your head high."

"I have lost my fighting hand," Hughes said bitterly. "What a great knight I'll make now."

"You are a good man, Hughes, and I have precious few of those I can call on. On my word, you will be a knight."

"But I cannot fight," he said.

"There are ways to wage war besides picking up a spear," Lelouch said, placing a hand on each of shoulder. "A man like you will always have a place at my table and hearth. Kneel."

"My lord?"

"Kneel, Hughes of Hull, Hughes Truespear," Lelouch said, and leaned in to whisper. "I did tell you, didn't I? The first proper fight we got into?" He stepped aside. "Ser Bryne, if you will?"

The second son of Lord Bryne nodded, drawing his sword and resting it on Hughes' shoulder. "Hughes Truespear, do you swear before the eyes of gods and men to defend those who cannot defend themselves, to protect all women and children, to obey your captains, your liege lord, and your king, to fight bravely when needed and do such other tasks as are laid upon you, however hard or humble or dangerous they may be?"

Hughes shook. "I do, ser."

Ser Spend-all touched his left shoulder. "Then rise a knight Ser Hughes Truespear. Serve your lord well."

"The old, the true!" Ser Tallfield shouted.

"The brave!" replied the men-at-arms, banging their shields and stomping their feet.

When they quieted down, Lelouch moved to Bluebeard. "You were my uncle's captain, were you not?"

"I was, my lord."

"Do you know where he was taken?"

"I regret to say I do not know. They took him hours before you came for us," Bluebeard said.

Lelouch nodded. "Will you serve as my captain as you served my uncle?"

The surprise was visible in Bluebeard's face. "I am a Tyroshi sellsail-"

"My uncle trusted you, and relied on your skills despite your origins," Lelouch said. "You followed him into a fight he could not win, and fought with us again after having lost once. You made no oaths of service to my family, only to my uncle. Swear to me now that you will serve the Velaryons of Driftmark loyally, and you will keep your captaincy. Serve me well, and I will make you a master of many ships."

"I stand ready to receive your orders," Bluebeard said.

Lelouch nodded. "I have consulted with Lord Tarth on this matter. That my uncle remains captive will _not_ stand. Ravens have flown this morning, calling on our allies to stand with us."

"What would you have us do?" Lord Wells asked.

"The fleet will sail for Driftmark with all haste. My lord uncle of Tarth has provided us generous lodgings, but we would be poor guests to leave ten thousand mouths for him to feed. Lord Wells and Ser Hughes will take charge of raising our banners in Driftmark with half the fleet," Lelouch said. "Ser Bryne and Tallfield will take the other half to Amblesea and await the bannermen of Lord Wendwater. We will meet again in Tarth."

"And after?"

Lelouch's grin was a brandished knife. "We will wreak bloody vengeance on our enemies."

He turned his attention to his disloyal lords. Had Uncle succeeded, it would have been a different story. They might have claimed to be doing what was best for Driftmark. Success could excuse many things. But they had not.

"As for the rest of you, I suppose you ought to go back to your homes," Lelouch said.

The other knights winced. "My lord, we are yours—" Orin Swyftfoot began.

"Are you now?" Lelouch asked. "I did not see you by my side on the shield wall, when we fought off a hundred men at the ports, Ser Swyftfoot." That the prisoner lords had been boarded onto one of the first ships on purpose went unmentioned.

"You will need us in the battles to come," Goodchair said.

And he would. "How is it the saying goes? 'Better to be on hand with ten men than absent with ten thousand'," Lelouch said. "Men who cannot obey orders are worth little in war." His eyes swept through the Chaseman levies. Ser Chaseman had died rather than be taken prisoner. Still, Lord Chaseman would hear of what had transpired.

"If you still think of yourselves Velaryon bannermen," Lelouch continued, "call your levies and prepare for war. If you do not, stay in your holdfasts. I care not either way."

Their honor would demand they answer the call, and commit more men than they otherwise would have to wipe the slate. It was no choice at all in truth.

"And where will you go, my lord?" Lord Wells asked.

"To King's Landing," Lelouch said. "King Aegon and my father must hear of this."

Uncle Stephas frowned. "King Aegon is dead. King Jaehaerys sits on the Iron Throne now."

Lelouch turned to him. "What? His Grace had many years of life left, and when I left he was headed to Summerhall."

"Summerhall burned," Uncle Stephas said.

"No," Lelouch whispered, his voice breaking. "Alarra..."

"Your sister lives," Uncle Stephas said, "but the maesters dare not say for how long. I thought you knew."


	8. Marks

**Chapter 8: Marks**

The _Seafyre_'s gangplank had barely touched port on the banks of Blackwater Rush before Lelouch hurried off the ship. He heard Bluebeard swear in Tyroshi Valyrian, the high-pitched, _weirder_ cousin of the Myrish and Lyseni dialects. It was sharp and screeching to his ears, but no one respected the sellsail less for his wet, girly mother tongue.

"Stay with the young lord! I will have your eyes fed to the dogs if he does not live to see the Red Keep!"

There was a shuffling of feet. "Double columns, double time! Advance!"

Lelouch had not even reached the River Gate before a score of Velaryon men-at-arms caught up to him. A little under fifty men in cloaks of heavy wool, dyed gold, barred their way into the city. The City Watch of King's Landing was armed with spear and cudgel, but could not form into a proper square. In a fight, he'd wager on his men slaughtering some and scattering the rest despite the disparity in numbers.

"Who goes there?" an officer asked, distinguished by the four golden disks which decorated his black breastplate.

The wind shifted, and Lelouch wrinkled his nose. The scent of refuse mingling with fish was more odious than when Myr burned and Myrmen died.

A knight with a seax on his shield who Lelouch did not recognize replied, "You stand before Lord Lelouch Velaryon, son of Jaron Velaryon, the master of ships. Let us through, we are on urgent business for the king!"

"We weren't told to expect anyone," the gold cloak said. "We _were_ told by Lord Royce to bar the gates against any armed party larger than five."

"Is Denham Blackwood not master of laws?" the knight asked.

The gold cloak shuddered. "He'd be hard pressed to give orders through his charred corpse."

_Summerhall_, Lelouch thought. _How many are dead? Is Alarra…_ There was no time for this. "No larger than five you said?"

"Aye, milord. I can offer a detachment to escort you to the Red Keep, if you need it. The people of the city have been… unruly after the death of the king and his court."

Lelouch's words stuck to the back of his throat and he nodded.

"You three, on me!" the Seax Knight bellowed.

Ten gold cloaks went ahead of them, shoving women and children aside to clear a path through Fishmonger's Square. He could feel the dark looks and soft spoken curses heaped on them, and even spotted a fisherman gripping a filleting knife like a man contemplating murder. Their pace quickened when they reached the curved thoroughfare known as the Hook, which connected Aegon's High Hill to the River Gate.

"Gods be good, I've never seen this city so riled up," the Seax Knight said.

"You've been here before, ser?" Lelouch asked.

"I had the honor to guard your father on many occasions in this city, as well as your sister and mother," the Seax Knight said. "And now you too, I suppose."

"I would have your name."

The knight tipped his head. "I am Ser Dennis of the Sea Axe, my lord."

No lordly name. "A hedge knight?" Lelouch asked.

Dennis fidgeted. "Aye, a hedge knight."

"Yet you claim to have escorted all of my family here," Lelouch said. Mother's last trip was before last winter, and to be trusted with such duties meant at least a year of faithful service. "You've served Driftmark for six years then, at the very least."

"Eight years," Ser Dennis said.

"A long time for a hedge knight to serve."

"I have known lords who have asked me to sully my good name for theirs, and lords who would not pay my due in full," Ser Dennis said. "Your father has done neither. For a hedge knight, that is as good a lord as any to serve."

"Still, eight years," Lelouch mused. "You never thought to ask for land?"

Dennis chuckled. "And tie myself down? No, my lord. I prefer my freedom and my right to choose a cause I believe in."

A larger group barred their way to the Red Keep, with banners of triple spiral, dagger crossed with mace, black lances, and many other crownland men joining their swords with the gold cloaks. Two hundred men, all told, and even had his full host been allowed through the city gates, Lelouch doubted they could best this many men in the cramped streets.

"Stop, in the name of the king!" said a white cloak. He was a well-built man, broad of chest and had the look of Ser Leyton to him. "I recognize the banner you fly, but my king decrees I ask your name nonetheless."

"Ser Hightower, I am Lelouch Velaryon, eldest son of the master of ships," Lelouch said. "I came as soon as I heard of my—" He swallowed and blinked away the sting in his eyes, "—my sister."

Gerold Hightower frowned. "I had thought you were dead, or at least lost to us. The whole court did. We will need to call your father to confirm your identity."

Lelouch glared, a retort on his tongue. _Who are you to deny me entry?_ _Who are any of you to keep me from my sister!? _

"Ser Hightower," Ser Seax said, perhaps sensing the storm before it struck, "do you recognize me?"

Gerold glanced at him, then at his shield. "I do, Ser Seax. Do you vouch for Lord Lelouch?"

"On my honor as a knight, ser."

"Then duty no longer binds me to keep you here," Ser Hightower said. "You will want to see your father."

"He can wait. Take me to my sister, if you would," Lelouch said.

Hightower hesitated. "She is not in the best of state to receive guests right now, and your father has not left his apartment in some days."

Lelouch turned violent, violet eyes on him. "Take me to my sister, _ser_, or point me to someone who knows where she is."

"Very well," he said, and led them to the Tower of the Hand. Sunlight streamed freely through the tall windows. They climbed its many steps in silence. Finally, Hightower stopped before a room and gestured to its door.

Lelouch flung the door open. A lithe girl with silver hair stood up, eyes wide and lips parted slightly. For a moment, he thought her his Alarra, but the cheeks were off and her hair did not shimmer in the light. And Alarra was no royal blood to have a white cloak guard her.

"Your Grace," Hightower greeted behind him. "Ser Mooton."

"Lord Commander."

Lelouch's eyes followed the hand the girl held, and walked up to the bed she sat next to, and the sister he'd failed. "Alarra..." Lelouch cupped the half of her face unmarred by wildfyre, "what have they done to you."

"She… she cannot hear you," Princess Rhaella said. "Grand Maester Pycelle says she has not woken since he gave her milk of the poppy for the pain."

A thin sliver of throbbing, reddened skin ran down her face, snaking down to the back of her neck and shoulder.

These were her lesser scars; severe, but not fatal.

Her left arm was a charred ruin, with a stump for a hand. A knife had been taken to her skin to clear away the deadened bits. In places, it had begun to scar over, but even that flesh was slick and black and oozing. He could see maggots squirming about, cleaning the dead flesh, and the odd mold poultice to dress what wounds could be safely dressed.

What a cruel jest the gods had played, to turn the most beautiful maiden in the world into this.

_Even Alarra's hair… her beautiful silver hair..._

"It was my fault," Princess Rhaella said, eyes puffy and swollen.

"What happened." A demand, not a question. Why? Why had his little Alarra been marred so, while this _Targaryen_ looked the state of health, beyond some sleeplessness?

They were Velaryons, were they not? They were of the blood of Old Valyria, descendants of dragonriders past just as much as any of these Targaryens.

"My grandfather brought out the dragon eggs… Wisdom Maxir had convinced him to hatch them. One moment we were talking and the next the world was burning down around us." Her voice hitched. "The fire was green and burned hotter than dragonfire."

"I cannot imagine," Lelouch said, "that any soul alive today knows what dragonfire feels like."

"My ser Bonifer...I still hear his screams at night," Rhaella said. "Ser Duncan was brave. I would have died if not for him. Both of us would have, but Ser Duncan saved me first and Alarra..."

"Will my sister live?"

"The grand maester believes the worst is past her, though with wildfyre, no one really knows. That she lived at all… men have burned to death from even the smallest spark. Wildfire barely needs an excuse." Hightower said.

"Praise the Seven for that," Lelouch spat out, "I would like the room to myself, _Your Grace_."

She narrowed her eyes. "Must you be like this? We are all in mourning. Summerhall has brought pain to the whole realm."

"I have lost my uncle and my sister both in the span of a sennight."

"My condolences—"

"Words," Lelouch interrupted her, "I do not want words. Those will not bring them back. Action might yet save one of them."

"Your ill manners shame your house," Rhaella huffed, storming off. Ser Mooton glared at him and followed her out.

"That was poorly handled," Hightower said. "You will not win any friends at court with a tongue like that."

Lelouch looked him in the eye. "I did not come here to make _friends_. I came here for a war."

Hightower stiffened, and placed a hand on his pommel. "Clarify yourself."

"The Blackfyres are gathering their strength," Lelouch said. "Liomond Lashare has my uncle. War is upon us, whether the realm wishes it or not. It is coming, as certain as ebb and flow of tide. Now leave me, if you would, ser."

He turned back to his sister. _What have they done to you_?

**-ZeroRequiem-**

Half an hour. That was all the peace this wretched place would grant him before a knocking on the door disturbed his vigil.

Perhaps if he ignored it, whoever was knocking might go away? The door was barred shut after all.

"Open this door, or I will have Ser Hightower cut it open," said a familiar gravelly voice that brooked no dissent.

Lelouch grumbled and stood to remove the chair he'd propped up against the door before opening it. His father was accompanied by two men.

"You need a shave," Lelouch said.

Father's eyes were bloodshot, and his clothes were wrinkled and dirty, unusual for a man that loved the court so. Lelouch whiffed the air and made a face. "You're about to say something," Father said. "Go on then, tell me about how 'greed is ever the downfall of men'. How wanting to see Alarra made the future queen of Westeros has ruined our house."

"Where were you?" Lelouch said instead. "My sister burned, yet you were not there to protect her. Your only daughter—"

"I had other duties," Father snarled, "to my king and the realm."

_Like moping in your apartment_. "_Damn_ your duties. Alarra should have come first! Always!"

Father's face contorted into a vicious, ugly thing, but no words erupted from his lips. His gaze moved towards Alarra's still form, and the room behind Lelouch. Something in him seemed to break, and he hunched over, as if all strength had left him. "When I heard about Myr, I—" Father paused to choke back a sob. "I thought I had lost you as well."

Then he hugged him. Lelouch couldn't remember the last time that had happened, and he remembered nearly everything. A pupil any archmaester would kill to have Maester Banneth had called him.

"Touching," the other man with them said, "as this moment is, there was a point to this visit besides the family reunion."

"Edgar, must you ruin everything?" Hightower asked.

"The affairs of the world do not stop even for the king, Lord Commander. Nevermind us lesser beings," Edgar said.

"Who is this?" Lelouch asked, raising a brow as Father pulled away.

"Lord Edgar Sloane, King Aegon's master of whisperers," Hightower said.

"King Jaehaerys' master of whisperers now," Father said.

Sloane was a pudgy blond with beady eyes, so distinctly _opposite_ Ser Gerold's classical Reach knight look. "I am given to understand you are from Myr," he said. "We have heard word that its port was burned and an outbreak of violence in the streets, but little else."

"Both are true," Lelouch said with a curt nod.

"Have you any idea as to the cause of such misfortune?" Sloane asked.

"You're looking at it."

Sloane frowned. "I don't understand."

"The fire," Lelouch said, "The violence. I caused it all."

"Explain," Father said.

So he told them of the magisters and Lashare and of his uncle's… choice. Lelouch could not bring himself to call it treachery, for his uncle had only done what he thought best for their house, though it stung to think of it. He might have succeeded too, had Lelouch not stolen men from his cause.

He told them of his schemes and knifes in the night. He told them of his suspicions about Blackfyre, but he did not tell them about the witch. She was hard to explain and the less people knew about Cici, the better.

"It is as we feared," Hightower said. "Maelys Blackfyre is preparing to invade."

"It is not enough," Father said. "We have brought our warnings before the king before. Both of them. They did not heed us, and the testimony of my son will not change the mind of the Lord Hand or our new master of laws."

"It may change Pycelle's mind," Hightower said, "or the newly arrived Lannister."

"The master of coins will side with Lord Baratheon," Father said. "The heirs of Casterly Rock and Storm's End are friends, lest you forget. With Lord Tytos' lack of _clarity_, Tymor Lannister will seek out his natural allies at court."

"What we need is proof," mused Sloane. He turned to Lelouch. "You spoke of magisters, that you conspired with them?"

Lelouch knew what he was asking. "No need to bandy words. You want proof. I can provide you that in exchange for something."

A smile touched Sloane's lips. "You speak my language well, young lord. Very well, information for information is a fair bargain. But first, what proof do you have to offer?"

"I have three magisters on my ship, the surviving government in exile of Myr. They will testify that my accounts are true," Lelouch said.

"Of the events in Myr perhaps," Sloane said, "but of Blackfyre's ploy? What would merchants know of that."

"Not much," Lelouch said, "except for Magister Zoutos who witnessed the verbal and signed confession alongside me."

Sloane rubbed his hands together. "Quite the prize you've brought us! This child of yours is full of surprises, Lord Velaryon. Why have you never brought him to court before?"

"There is the matter of what I want still," Lelouch said.

"And what is it you want?" Hightower asked.

War. Vengeance.

"Wisdom."

**-ZeroRequiem-**

The court had been left in shambles by the Tragedy at Summerhall as it was being called now. Only five living souls could now claim the name Targaryen. Besides the king and his immediate family was his youngest sister, Princess Rhaelle, who was wife to the new Lord Hand.

The Kingsguard, Lelouch had learned, had been decimated. Only Gerold Hightower and Harlan Grandison remained of that ancient order before the first white cloak was offered to Lewyn Martell in the days since. Even Ser Duncan was dead. Half the small council had perished too, with only his father, Lord Edgar and Grand Maester Pycelle having served with King Aegon.

Countless more retainers, knights, officials, ladies, and men-at-arms died.

Fortuitous, these vipers called it, that of Princess Rhaella's ladies-in-waiting, only Alarra had been touched by fire. The Lannister and Martell girls were out for a walk when the fire occurred.

_Fortuitous_, Lelouch thought, as he brought the butt of his quarterstaff down on the fallen squire's shield, over and over.

"Yield, sir! I yield!"

Lelouch hit him once more for good measure, before looking to Ser Willem Darry. "Next."

"You've had quite enough, Lord Lelouch," the master-at-arms said. "This is your sixth bout, and your hand is still injured."

The squires here were much easier to catch unawares with tricks and viciousness, unlike Donnall. Lelouch wished he'd not sent his cousin back to Driftmark, but needs must. His arms ached and his lungs burned, but they did not burn hotter than wildfire. It was not enough. "I will tell you when I've had enough, ser."

"I will face him."

Lelouch turned his head to see Steffon Baratheon step into the sandy courtyard. He recognized the two boys flanking him as Prince Aerys and the Lannister by their hair. The sparring swords in their hands did not escape him. He spotted two whitecloaks, Redfort and Meadows, watching uneasily from a distance.

_These must be the heirs._

"Are you certain, Lord Steffon?" Ser Darry asked.

Steffon nodded. He had the look of a demon to him, with his face contorted in rage.

Lelouch knew that feeling well.

"My sister spoke of you," Aerys said.

Ah, so that was it. "At least your sister can speak to you," Lelouch said, kneeling down. A lance of pain struck his injured hand as he grasped at sand, before he stood.

"What happened to your sister was a tragedy, but that is no excuse to lash out at my cousin Rhaella," Steffon Baratheon said.

"You do not use a sword," Aerys said.

"No, a spear suits me better," said Lelouch. It was Uncle's weapon of choice, why had he need of another?

"Like a Martell," Tywin Lannister said. He could feel the boy studying him with his eyes.

"A peasant's weapon," Aerys said. "Are you a peasant?"

"I don't think dead men care how or who or what kills them," Lelouch said. "Whether lord or peasant, the Stranger takes them all the same. Now, are we going to stand here all day, or are we going to fight?" His hand was killing him.

Steffon charged with two hands on his bastard sword, going for a powerful swing.

Lelouch judged the distance, and threw a handful of sand at his eyes. Steffon's strike was off, and he danced around him. "Dead, dead, dead," he said, punctuating each word with a jab to the back, neck, and head.

"A dirty trick!" Steffon cried out, still half-blinded by the particles. "You fight without honor!"

"I fight to win," Lelouch said. "My hand is injured, yet you do not see me whining about it."

Aerys laughed. "Let us see how you fare against me then."

Aerys' stance betrayed his skill with the sword, and Lelouch had long ago learned to spot when he was outmatched. _Same trick won't work twice_, Lelouch thought. _Plan of attack_?

Attack.

Lelouch launched a flurry of blows and jabs against Aerys, but though it caught him off guard, it did not _break_ his guard. Aerys weathered his attack masterfully, and shot him a winsome smile when his strength was spent.

Breathe. He could not—

Aerys' next blow hit the side of his head.

_Get up._ _Fight._ Lelouch stared at the sky, keenly aware of the warmth. _Not over._

Breathe.

Aerys' face blocked out the sun's rays from his eyes. "Are you alright? I didn't expect you just to drop your staff like that," he said, worried, not mocking.

Lelouch opened his mouth, but no sound was forthcoming.

"Lord Lelouch has been at it for an hour now, and his injured hand does not make fighting easier on him."

"You shouldn't have pushed yourself so," Aerys chided, offering his hand. "Come on, get up."

Have to be. _Better._ Kill. Revenge. Lashare.

Breathe.

"Mayhaps we should bring him to Grand Maester Pycelle for treatment," Tywin said.

"I'm fine," Lelouch said. "I think."

"Splendid," Aerys said, his smile returning in full splendor. His hand remained offered.

Lelouch took it, and found himself pulled up.

"You fight well," Aerys said.

"Not well enough."

"Don't be too hard on yourself," Aerys said. "It was your eighth bout and with your injuries too. We should train together again, mayhaps when you are in better condition. It was interesting facing off against a staff with the longer reach."

"As you wish, Your Grace," Lelouch said.

"None of this _Your Grace_ business," Aerys said. "Call me Aerys, or Prince Aerys if you're a stiffy like Tywin over there."

"As you wish, Prince Aerys."

Aerys sighed. "Great. Another Tywin."

"It's only proper, Prince Aerys," Tywin said.

"You are the Crown Prince," Lelouch added.

"Aerys Targaryen, Second of His Name. Prince of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men," Tywin continued. "Future Lord of the Seven Kingdoms."

"Protector of the Realm," Lelouch finished.

"If you're quite done mouthing off," Aerys said.

"We wouldn't dream of it," Tywin said.

Aerys ignored him. "You ought to spar with Ser Lewyn Martell one day. He prefers the spear too, and is quite formidable with it. You might learn a thing or two."

**-ZeroRequiem-**

His day at court arrived at last. Aerys waved at Lelouch as he took his place among those who'd be granted audience. Rhaella glared. The magisters three tittered beside him.

King Jaehaerys Targaryen, Second of His Name, towered over them all from the Iron Throne. Supposedly built from a thousand blades of surrendered enemies, it was a monstrosity of twisted metal fused by dragon's breath. There was a wrongness to it, out of balance and proportion with the world and itself.

_The Iron Throne has to be the worst chair in the history of chairs,_ Lelouch thought, _maybe ever._

"Your Grace," Lord Baratheon began, "before we begin with today's affairs, we have yet to settle on a decision regarding the Alchemists' Guild. They must be punished for their role in the Tragedy at Summerhall."

"As you've reminded me many a time, Lord Ormund," King Jaehaerys said. "As I recall, you wanted the Wisdoms exiled for enabling it."

"Exile would send the wrong message, Your Grace," Lord Commander Hightower said. "What they allowed to happen is kingslaying, no other word for it. They must be put to death as a reminder."

"They obeyed my father's orders," King Jaehaerys said. "If they are at fault for anything, it is that."

"Their obedience brought great harm upon the realm," Hightower said. Father and Lord Edgar nodded.

"Have you any thoughts to share on this, Lord Tymor?" King Jaehaerys asked.

Tymor Lannister of Lannisport tilted his head. "While I can only commend the Lord Commander's devotion, it sounds as if he is judging the Wisdoms by the precepts of the Kingsguard. Not all men have sworn oaths to protect the king, even from himself."

"It sets a dangerous precedent," Lord Edgar said.

"These deliberations have gotten us nowhere," King Jaehaerys said, "and we have more important affairs to address. The Wisdoms won't be going anywhere while they're locked up in the black cells."

Lord Baratheon bowed. "As you say, Your Grace. Our next order of business is the Blackfyres. Lord Edgar tells me he has irrefutable evidence on the matter."

Lelouch took a deep breath and stepped forward.

Lord Royce's brow shot up. "This is your evidence? The son of our master of ships?"

"If you might recall, we had tasked Adamm Velaryon to gather information in Myr before the city went up in smoke," Lord Edgar said. "Lord Velaryon had also sent his son on that same expedition."

"Tell us what happened," King Jaehaerys said.

So he did, repeating the tale he'd shared with his father's faction. Aerys looked quite enthralled by his tale, while Rhaella seemed disturbed by it. King Jaehaerys, though, was unreadable. "...then I came here as quick as I could on the _Seafyre._"

"We are expected to believe that a boy managed to break out of a city while outnumbered?" Royce asked. "Or that his hobbled together conclusions is evidence that the Blackfyres will invade? Do not misunderstand me, they are a threat, and if the gods should kill them all I will be glad for it, but the realm is in no fit shape for a war with summer not yet upon us."

"Lelouch Velaryon has others who will corroborate his tale, and a signed confession from a conspirator," Lord Edgar said. "Besides, we're blessed with a warm winter. Men will find discomfort outdoors, but not death."

Zoutos, Rasporos, and Glossos stepped forward besides him, each with their own translator. Why they could not have shared one was beyond him. They told a story similar to his, adding unnecessary details here and there and cursing Lashare's perfidy to the high heavens. Then they presented the letter Nine Eyes had written.

"I should hope," Father said, "that this is enough to settle the matter. War is coming, as we had advised King Aegon before. Better that we prepare now, rather than later."

"I agree, Your Grace," Lord Baratheon said. "We ought to prepare at least." The stormlands would likely be the first region to see war.

"If the Stepstones are seized, Westeros will be vulnerable. It is warm enough for a campaign to be feasible," Pycelle added.

King Jaehaerys nodded. Sharp black iron points in a band of red gold rested heavy on his brow. "Send out the ravens. Call the banners."

"The Royal Fleet will need to be assembled," Lord Baratheon said. "Even then, it might not be enough. We will need the Iron Fleet and the Redwynes too."

"If I might interject, Your Grace," Lelouch said.

King Jaehaerys assessed him with large, purple eyes, as if trying to see into his soul. "You have brought us valuable information. For that, if nothing else, you have earned the privilege to be heard this one time."

"The fleets arrayed against you are scattered still," Lelouch said. "A contingent is still raiding the Lysene trade routes, and several smaller flotillas are moving to secure the Stepstones. If we allow them to solidify their hold on the islands, it will be much harder to remove them."

"Your words ring true to me," King Jaehaerys said, "but we have no fleet ready to strike so quickly."

"But you do, Your Grace." At his confused look, Lelouch added, "You have my fleet."

"The Driftmark fleet is but sixty ships strong right now," Father said, shooting him a perplexed look. He had not been told of this next part. "We are building more though."

"It is not enough," Lord Baratheon said. "There are a hundred and fifty ships in the Stepstones alone if the reports are to be trusted, and more arrive daily."

"My uncle, the Lord of Tarth, has joined his thirty ships to my cause, and a number of refitted merchant vessels," Lelouch said. A slight exaggeration. His uncle had offered a great many ships, but not his full fleet. "And the Myrish exiles have pledged to support me as well with their ships." Of which half were actually fit for war, and only pried from their unwilling, grubby hands.

"Altogether, I will have at least a hundred ships," Lelouch said. _Exactly one hundred ships. _"I can sail as soon as you give the word." After days of deliberation that would no doubt take place, he would be ready.

"The boy wins one skirmish and thinks himself the Sea Snake and Oakenfist come again!" Royce said. "Shall we call you Seafyre for setting alight one measly port? That does not make you a fit commander at sea."

Lelouch tilted his head and kept his annoyance from showing. "You may call me what you wish, Lord Royce."

"He is a Velaryon. He was born to ride the tide," Father said with confidence, though his glance betrayed his feelings.

"A quick strike would give us time to gather our host," Lord Baratheon said, though his eyes were narrowed. He had not liked his vassal heeding the orders of another, nevermind from his rival family at court. "If nothing else, it might at least bloody the enemy and delay them some."

_In the event of defeat_, Lelouch finished in his head.

"But he's just a boy," Tymor Lannister said. "Are we really to give command of a hundred ships to him?"

"We are not giving him anything," King Jaehaerys said, steepling his fingers. "He has cobbled together this fleet of his by the sweat of his own brow, supplied them at his own expense, and called his allies with no prodding from us."

He leaned forward. "Still, you are correct, Lord Tymor. He is just a boy. Why is it you are so eager to fight, Lelouch Velaryon? Dreams of glory and honors?"

"No," Lelouch said. _I fight to save my uncle. _"When Daemon Blackfyre first took up arms, I am ashamed to say that my forefathers raised their swords for his claim."

Father frowned.

"We have never defied the Iron Throne since," Lelouch continued, "but the work is half-done. That a Blackfyre remains alive today is a reminder of that ignoble past. That a Blackfyre might still strike at the heart of Westeros unforgivable. I will right these wrongs. There will be no more _pretenders_."

"So it is not honor, but shame that moves you to act," King Jaehaerys mused.

Father opened his mouth to say something, but seemed to think better of it. He obviously disapproved, but what could he say? He would not countermand his own son and heir in public, not when his plan seemed to be working. He'd look the utter fool.

"I have taken the lessons of the past to heart, Your Grace."

"We shall see. Have you anything else to add?"

Lelouch nodded. "It is presumptuous of me, but if Your Grace would let me lead, I ask you leave the Wisdoms to my command. Death is a waste, and exile a mercy. There will be use for them in the battles to come, and through service to the realm and the Iron Throne, they might absolve some of their guilt."

"Not unlike taking the Black," Sloane said, as they'd agreed.

"There is precedent," Hightower added.

"It is a waste," King Jaehaerys agreed, "that such learned men of their long storied order be given to the Stranger. To let them serve then, that they might be redeemed through it, appeals to me. My advisors and I will deliberate on this."

"By your leave, Your Grace," Lelouch said.

**-ZeroRequiem-**

Lelouch had never considered himself pious, despite Septa Kailsey's insistence that his charity could only mean so. Even in his other life, he had not bought in to religion after his mother's death.

Yet, he found himself on Visenya's Hill before the Great Sept of Baelor.

The seven bells on the seven crystal towers reverberated, and the double doors of the dome opened. The steps of a thousand visitors echoed against the marble floor as children marveled at the great windows of colored glass. Beneath the center of the dome met seven broad aisles leading to seven altars to their seven gods.

The Father's and the Mother's were side-by-side and the first faces that were seen by any who entered. Besides the Father was Warrior, then Smith; besides the Mother was Maiden, then Crone.

Many devotees lit scented candles in honor of those gods, and held hands or prayed before the altars.

Lelouch could pray to the Father Above for justice. He would be meting plenty of it to Lashare and his band of villains. Or perhaps the Mother Above for mercy was more deserving. By her grace, his uncle might yet live. The Warrior for courage in battle, and he knew prayers to the Smith was considered tradition before setting sail. The Maid to keep his sister safe in this den of vipers? Maybe the Crone for guidance in the war to come.

Instead, Lelouch turned around and faced the Stranger. Neither male, nor female, it stood apart from the rest of the Seven.

It was the god of death, and few people lit candles for it.

Lelouch lit a candle and set it before the altar. "Forgive me, Stranger, for I will sin."


	9. Interlude - By the Light of

**Chapter 9: Interlude - By the Light of**

"Ser Hughes, if I'm being honest, I don't like the look of these Myrmen," Stuar said. "They're not honest folk like those of us on this side of the narrow sea."

Hughes sighed. "You're not the first to feel this way. Nonetheless, Lord Lelouch was quite insistent that they be brought here."

"I suppose if it's Lord Lelouch's orders…" Stuar said. "Still, I'm not sure how a man can trust a slaver. It goes against everything the septons preach," Stuar said, finishing his delivery of bread to the camp.

"Which is why we're keeping them here in Spicetown for now," Hughes said, handing the baker his payment with his remaining hand. "Lord Lelouch is aware of your concerns, and is taking every step to ensure these Myrmen cannot prey on his people."

"He's always looked out for us smallfolk, y'know?" Stuar said. "Well, I best be off. I've had to take on five apprentices just to meet these orders, and it's still not enough."

Hughes nodded. "Things will go back to normal once they've had a chance to settle down. They have bakers among them, that make this round pie with salted meat and cheese. You should try some when they start making them."

Stuar's brows scrunched. "I dunno 'bout any of that, ser. I like my bread as it is. I'll be seeing you same time tomorrow."

Hughes watched him depart on his horse-drawn wagon for Hull to the north. Ensuring that ten thousand foreigners were kept fed and took most of his day as it was. It would only get worse too.

_Seven willing that summer comes soon_, Hughes thought, _if the winter lasts any longer…_

The first of the Velaryon bannermen, a hundred Swyftfoot men, arrived later that day. They must have emptied their holdfast to put together this many men. Lady Alysanne and Ser Cristin Swyftfoot, the heir, rode at the head of the column, while the disgraced Orin Swyftfoot rode several paces behind them. He could hear the sound of a babe wailing near the back, where a lady-in-waiting of Lady Alysanne was.

"Lady Velaryon. Lord Cristin," Hughes said, bowing. "Ser Orin."

"Ser Hughes… Truespear, was it?" Lady Alysanne asked.

"That is the knightly name Lord Lelouch gave me," Hughes said.

"You've risen high in his service," Lady Alysanne said with a kind smile. "Years of humoring his plots and ploys. He has new orders for you."

"I stand ready to receive them, my lady," Hughes said, accepting the letter she offered. His brow arched up. "Whale oil? Forgive me, but I don't see how this would be of any help at sea."

Lady Alysanne shrugged. "My son's schemes are a mystery to me. I do not have a head for war like his uncle did."

"Ser Hughes, where might my men encamp for the night?" Ser Cristin asked, his eyes sweeping through the chaos around them.

"Follow me," Hughes said.

After Spicetown had been sacked many, many years ago, it had been reduced to a grouping of mud huts and hovels. Even if they had enough to house the Myrmen, they made for poor shelter on a warm winter night. Better housing would have to be built or the people would freeze to a man. As it was, a mishmash of lodgings had sprung up haphazardly wherever the Myrmen could find material to build with.

The only order to this chaos had arisen by itself. A lifetime under the yoke had ingrained a sense of _belonging_, if it could be called that, in the Myrmen. They'd sorted themselves according to whom they called master.

Spicetown could be divided roughly into five parts. First was the town center where the people of Driftmark who'd lived there for years resided. It was situated by the sea, and had nothing of note besides a small pier and some fishing vessels. Second, third, and fourth were where the slaves of the magisters three had settled. Rasporos' three thousand were to the northeast and Zoutos' twenty-five hundred to the west, with Glossos' fifteen hundred hands setting up a small enclave in between the two.

"Here, Ser Cristin," Hughes said, tapping his foot against solid ground and near the inland well. The last part was furthest inland, and made up of those men whose masters were dead, or in Myr.

They were, in Hughes' opinion, free men and women in truth, though such a concept seemed beyond their comprehension when he'd asked the green-haired woman to tell them. They wondered about aimlessly, jumping to obey every order they understood, regardless of who gave it. Cici had named herself their "mayor", which must have been a myrish word for lady.

"My thanks, Ser Hughes," Ser Cristin said. "Do you perchance know when the others will arrive?"

"We expect the men from Chaseman and Lord Tallfield to arrive tomorrow, and Goodchair the day after at the latest," Hughes said. Under normal circumstances, he'd been told that Chaseman and Goodchair might take several more days to gather, but their disgrace had left those lords eager to show they were eager.

"Lord Wells has informed me that he will need four days, and that contingents from Harrock and Bryne will join him," Hughes continued. The seaside houses were further away, and the Wells men had to come down from their ridge.

Ser Cristin was silent for a minute as his men began to set up their tents. "That does not strike me as enough men to crew the seventy ships moored here."

Hughes glanced about them. "We will be bringing some of the Myrmen here with us apparently."

"A bold choice," Ser Cristin said, then in a lower voice asked, "Can they be relied on?"

"Most of them have never raised a spear in their life," Hughes said. "But Lord Lelouch says there will be use for them beyond fighting. I have been tasked with discovering the professions these particular men and women had when they lived in Myr."

"An unenviable task, especially when they do not speak our tongue. I wish you the best of luck on it," Ser Cristin said.

"Thank you," Hughes said with a worried frown.

_This does not feel like a knightly task._

**-ZeroRequiem-**

Magister Zoutos Ayas boarded the _Seafyre _under the moonlit night. "So we are finally to leave this wretched city," he said. His idiot speech slave repeated his words.

"I thought King's Landing would be to your liking," the cousin-boy, Donnall, said.

"What makes you think that?" Zoutos asked.

"It's a city like Myr, is it not?"

Zoutos snorted, eyeing the wise men be boarded at sword point on another, smaller trade ship with their sacred box. "It is nothing like it. Myr is the jewel of the narrow sea. This city, if I can call it that, has but five hundred thousand people I'm told, yet it smells of refuse and waste. You can attest to this, did Myr smell this bad when you were there?"

"I admit, it did not," cousin-boy said.

"Exactly," Zoutos said. "Furthermore, it makes nothing of worth. Myr can point to its many great crafts and masters of fine makings. Even Tyrosh has its dyes, and Lys its bed warmers. Here? I see nothing _made_, save fish. To their credit, at least the wealthier streets have good Myrish products, as any sensible place should have."

"They make good swords and armor in the Street of Steel," cousin-boy said.

"Like I said, nothing of worth." The ship lurched as it left port.

Cousin-boy tilted his head. "Swords and armor fetch quite the price here in Westeros."

_Because the Sunset Kingdoms are a barbaric place_, he thought. "A lot of coin to spend on things only used during war."

"Necessary costs," cousin-boy said. "Did we not see fighting in Myr?"

"The first time I have seen it occur in my lifetime," Zoutos said.

"Do you not wage wars over the Disputed Lands?"

"They are _disputes_, not wars, hence the name. Wars involve burning cities, leaving fields fallow, and wholesale slaughter. It is understood among the Daughters of Valyria that disputes are not done this way," Zoutos said. "We do not let it affect the flow of trade, no matter what."

"A strange way to fight a war," cousin-boy said.

"Because it is not a war. Disputes are how civilized places handle disagreements, and at the end of them, we sign contracts that make formal the new state of things."

It was clear the cousin-boy did not understand by the look of his face. Thankfully Lelouch was not so dim, or they might all have perished in Myr.

"What happens," cousin-boy began, "when you no longer agree on what should be the state of things?"

"Then we have disputes." _Like explaining things to a child,_ Zoutos thought. _Even dear Omorfia understood such things at half his age._

"Do those occur much?"

"Quite frequently," Zoutos said. "A year is not complete without at least one breaking out. Should a Free City ever be _content _with the state of things for long, they will find themselves less free as a lesser city quickly."

"You have wa—sorry, _disputes_ every year?" cousin-boy asked. "Is that why you hire sellswords to do the fighting?"

"It's all they're good for," Zoutos said. "Just as I would not ask a baker to fish, or a dyer to sew. Each man and woman has a part to play in the city. What great loss we would incur to put swords and spears in the hands of craftsmen. In a moment, a twinkling of time, years spent honing their craft stolen by death."

"Like the maesters of the Citadel."

"Yes, yes! Exactly!" Perhaps there was hope for the boy.

Donnall seemed to think, before opening his mouth. "Why do you fight over the Disputed Lands? I imagine paying sellswords costs a fair bit of coin. Why not just split it among Myr, Lys, and Tyrosh, and be done with it?"

Zoutos considered the words wistfully. "The old magisters tried more than a hundred years ago. They named it the Kingdom of the Three Daughters."

"You had a king?" Donnall asked.

"Ha! No, we had a high council that rules of thirty-three men. Together, we humbled that whore Volantis and drove it from the Disputed Lands," Zoutos said. "But then many conspired to bring us low and break the alliance, including your Sunset Kingdoms and the Braavosi. Mighty as we once were, even we could not stand against the combined might of three Free Cities _and_ the Sunset Kingdoms. Never forget that those who overreach might rise high, but they also fall fast."

"You have not answered my question," Donnall said.

"Do you know what the Disputed Lands produce? What other name it is called?" Zoutos asked. At the shake of his head, he answered, "The Verdant Heel, for it yields grains and crops in abundance. Large cities are many peopled, all of whom must be fed. The fields of the Disputed Lands provide much of that food. Would any permit another to hold the knife of famine to their people's throat?"

Donnall shook his head again. "It would be unwise."

"Exactly," Zoutos said. "That is why we have disagreements. More food is always needed and in short supply."

There was a pause. "Lelouch has offered you kingship of Myr."

"He has offered three of us this," Zoutos said.

"Have you thought about what you might do with it? To be kings…"

Zoutos shrugged. "Perhaps we will raise new Magisters of Myr to power and return it to the old way of things. Perhaps we will rule as Triarchs like they do in Volantis. I have not spoken with that rascal Rasporos, or Glossos on what we might do."

Donnall frowned. "You speak of Magister Rasporos with such contempt, and yet you expect him to work with you?"

"Rasporos and I hate each other, this is true, but we both know there is a time to shake hands with the enemy to defeat the greater enemy," Zoutos said. "We have done it before, and we will do so again. A merchant that lets grudges prevent them from making deals will impoverish himself in a year."

"But… they did not come with us," Donnall said. "They said they would take a ship back to Driftmark instead."

"I am aware. They are of a younger breed, without stomach for fights and bared blades," Zoutos said. "I do not care for it, but I would know how Lelouch Velaryon intends to fight this war. I will not gamble so heavily on a man whose ways I know nothing of."

"I'm sure you'll like him," Donnall said. "He's clever and can be cruel, but never for its own sake."

"Of course you would praise him so," Zoutos said, glancing at the rising moon. "You are his cousin. Now, it is becoming late. I will retire."

The next few days at sea passed exactly as Velaryon explained it would. Ten ships of Myrish make from the west joined them after a day, half-filled with knights and men. Together, their flotilla raced for Tarth. Always though the trade ship of the wise men was kept at a distance from their ships, which struck Zoutos as odd. From what he knew of disputes at sea, keeping your fleet together was preferrable.

"Tell me, Magister Zoutos, do you play?" Velaryon asked, gesturing to the cyvasse board he'd set up on the deck.

"All magisters play, whether they know it or not," Zoutos said, taking a seat across from him. "What form do you prefer?"

Velaryon explained and they began to set up the board. His fortress was placed on the second rank, while Zoutos' was on the fourth.

"The right to choose is yours," Zoutos said.

"Then I will play first," Velaryon said, moving his king to the side.

"A waste of a move," Zoutos said. "You could have placed it further back."

The Velaryon smiled, as if remembering some jest. "If the king doesn't move, then his subjects won't follow."

The Velaryon played recklessly, moving immediately after Zoutos did. Such affairs ought to be thought through, or missteps would occur. Through happenstance, Velaryon made no great blunders that Zoutos could see. Still it was only a matter of time.

It was fortuitous for the boy that they were interrupted eight moves in.

"A pirate ship by the looks of it, my lord," the Tyroshi said.

Velaryon frowned. "They don't sail this far north normally, do they?"

"No," the Tyroshi replied. "The better trade routes are to the south, towards Plankytown and Oldtown, or along the Essosi shoreline. Shall we chase them down?"

"Can it be done quickly?"

"Yes."

Velaryon nodded. "Do it then, and try to keep them intact. I would have words with their captain."

There were some shouted words and the _Seafyre _picked up speed, outpacing its escorts in minutes. The trade thieves seemed to panic, but could do little as their ship's greater oars caught up to them in half an hour.

Javelins and bows were being prepared when Velaryon waved at the trade thieves. "Ahoy there! Come aboard, I've just opened this casket of Arbor gold and can't finish it all."

Even from where Zoutos stood, he could see the trade thieves share looks of confusion.

Then Velaryon raised his glass to them and took a sip of wine. The _Seafyre'_s crew lowered their weapons. "I just want to talk to your captain. No harm will come to you on my word as a lord."

A gangplank was extended to connect their ships, and a bearded Lyseni came across with a pair of swordsmen.

"Who do I have the honor of addressing?" Velaryon asked.

"Captain Lysandro of the _Women's Wail_," the Lyseni said.

"What brings you to these waters?" Velaryon asked. "As I understand it, there are more riches to be had elsewhere."

Lysandro scowled. "There are, but the Great Bitch and Lord Whore think themselves king and queen of the narrow sea. They've put several ships to the sword already that prey on the traders of Pentos or Lys."

"Are you speaking of Samarro Saan and the Old Mother?" Velaryon asked, handing him a goblet.

"Thank you. Good vintage." Lysandro swallowed. "Aye, I speak of them."

"How are they able to do such things?" Velaryon asked. "I know they have control of Tyrosh, but—"

"Not just Tyrosh," Lysandro said. "Their ships have been sighted at Pryr, Highwatch, and Redwater. Scarwood and Bloodstone will be next."

Velaryon eyed the Cyvasse board as Zoutos decided on his elephant at last, and replied by swinging his horse around a mountain. "Bloodstone is a large island, nearly twice the size of Driftmark. Surely you could turn back their ships if you wanted?"

"There are pirates who answer to Lord Whore already on Bloodstone," Lysandro said. "And Bloodstone has a score of pirates that call themself the Bloodlord."

"You are familiar with the island?" Velaryon asked.

Lysandro shrugged. "I have hidden from storms there a few times, and have been employed by the odd pirate lord to raid a rival's harbor point."

"You seem to me a hard working, diligent man of great intellect," Velaryon said.

Zoutos snorted and Velaryon shot him a glare.

"Excuse my impertinent friend," Velaryon said. "I can think of no one more worthy to become Bloodlord. Would you be interested?"

Lysandro's greed shined through his eyes. "What would you want in return? I have no riches to pay you with."

"Riches? Let us not speak of such things. We have shared drinks, so are we not friends, Lysandro? All I ask is that we keep certain mutual enemies from taking the island," Velaryon said. "Perhaps in the future, we might even work together on other things."

"You do not want the island yourself?" Lysandro asked.

"But it is so far from my dear mother," Velaryon said, finishing off his cup and moving again.

Zoutos considered the board and scowled.

**-ZeroRequiem-**

Donnall had never pretended that he understood his cousin's many schemes. He'd learned long ago that Lelouch's mind ran at a different pace than everyone else.

It was why he preferred the sword.

Lelouch was clever, and so he thought he could think his way out of any problem. _But sometimes_, Donnall thought, bashing his shield against a pirate's face and knocking him into the wine red sand while he pushed his sword through another's chest, _you just have to color your steel red._

It had a way of simplifying a lot of things.

One of the pirates tried to come at him with a knife of all things. Donnall rolled his eyes as it slid against his chainmail impotently. His sword was still stuck in a chest, so he curled his right hand into a fist and bloodied the idiot's nose.

Donnall retrieved his sword, gave the man a quick poke, and assessed the beach. All along the shore, the pirates under the "Dogman" fled. He spotted Ser Rolan Redmoore from the Wendwater raise a severed head in the air as men cheered.

"Big victory," Captain Lysandro said besides him in broken Common.

"The first of many today," Donnall answered.

Bloodstone's coast was pockmarked with pirate dens and smuggler lairs. Lysandro had pointed them towards a strip of shore he knew was lightly held, but Donnall didn't expect the fighting to be this easy.

"Where next?" Donnall asked.

"Not wait others come land?" Lysandro asked.

Donnall shook his head. "We hit the pirates hard and fast."

It took half an hour to get the first two hundred men ready to move, which was faster than Donnall expected.

"Get a move on, before I break your skulls alongside these scum!" bellowed Redmoore. "I plan on killing twenty men personally today, and I don't mind if I have to take out the difference on you lot!"

Then again, most people didn't have a beast like Redmoore to _encourage_ the men.

The weather on Bloodstone was agreeably warm even during winter, not unlike Oldtown. It shouldn't have come as a surprise that on their way to the next closest pirate lord ("Mad Nadruk", some wannabe from Braavos), they came across several small farming villages. The smallfolk peered at them as they marched past, more curious than frightened.

"Pirates no kill farmers," Lysandro explained as they followed the dirt trail through the woods. "Cook food for us. Give daughters for fuck. Have plants for heal. Pirate lord that kill farmers get killed quick."

"What do you eat here anyway? I don't imagine they grow enough crops," Donnall said.

"Big sea. Plenty fish."

Donnall nodded. That made sense. "Is it the same across at Serpentholm?" He could see the edges of the island from the wooded hill.

Lysandro shook his head. "Stupid live in Serpentholm. Many snakes, many poison. Kill quick. Look, we near."

Nadruk's haven was little more than an assembly of wooden and stone huts by the sea. It was a good place to hide from the storm, but had little in the way of comfort.

"Bastard, get over here," came Redmoore's gruff voice.

Donnall crept up to him, just before the woodline turned into open field. "Ser Redmoore?"

"Take your seahorses and circle round that way," Redmoore said, pointing south. "Block off their escape. You have ten minutes."

Donnall signalled to the Driftmark men to follow him. Six minutes later, they'd gotten into position just in time. Redmoore charged the pirates like a rabid dog on the loose, swinging his two-hander so hard it actually cut a man in half. Ser Mortimer Creek was mere seconds behind him, cracking a skull open with every swing of his morningstar. The Glade brothers, on the other hand, were particular towards disemboweling.

Faced against such monsters, and with little to fight for, the sea scourges broke even before Nadruk's body cooled.

Which was when Donnall stepped out with his men, though they held their line. The first man who tried to run past them they gave a good stabbing to, just so there wouldn't be any misunderstandings.

The rest threw down their weapons.

Lysandro strutted up to them, speaking in quick Lyseni with such emphatic hand gestures that Donnall wasn't sure whether he was cussing them out or making love to their metaphorical sisters.

The pirates pledged their undying and eternal loyalty to His Magnificence, Lyssandro Bloodwail, the Pirate King of Bloodstone without much more prompting.

"This is almost too easy," Donnall said to Lysandro as they resumed the march.

"These small pirates," Lysandro said. "Big pirates harder."

"And where are the big pirates hiding out at?"

Lysandro grimaced. "Saintsport."

Saintsport, as it was so aptly named, was the largest and only city on Bloodstone. It was situated at the widest point on the Blood Strait with Serpentholm, with a wooden palisade and a moat ringing around it. This was the seventeenth Saintsport to Lysandro's knowledge, with its past sixteen iterations having been burned, flooded, raided, pillaged, or otherwise destroyed in different places at different times.

Saintsport was home to three thousand whores, pirates, thieves, dredges, lowlifes and more whores. Six of the more powerful pirate lords on Bloodstone had managed to not kill each other on sight and agree to keep the peace in the city. _Really,_ what that meant was drawing too much blood outside of the fighting pits was frowned upon.

"Leaves stains. Sand hides it," Lysandro said.

Lesser pirates had to pay a fee to dock, paid in goods or good, but you had to be the right sort of pirate. Those who'd shed blood, or had otherwise pissed off a member of the Six Saints, did not have the peace to shield them.

It took another three days and four raids before Donnall laid eyes on the hive of scum and villainy. The path they'd traversed saw them approach the city from the north.

The next day, a host thrice their number of Myrish slaves, press-ganged pirates, and Tarth men-at-arms appeared on the western ridges overlooking Saintsport. By now the residents of the city were getting antsy, as even they could hear the sound of many axes biting into wood.

On their sixth day on Bloodstone, Lelouch showed up from the south with a mixed host of Wendwater and Driftmark levies. Their fleet of a hundred ships blockaded the port.

Six pirates were sent out under the white flag. Some of them, Donnall knew, were sworn to the Old Mother though they might not obey her whims in truth. Lelouch demanded their heads.

He was refused.

On their seventh day on Bloodstone, rocks rained down on the city. A fire had broken out somehow in the night too, and sounds of steel on steel made sleep difficult.

Before dawn broke, two heads were mounted outside the city, and dozens more thrown down at their feet under the white flag.

"I knew you could be reasonable," Lelouch said, smiling as if discussing the weather. "A storm is coming from the north, I think."

"We have dealt with them like you asked," one with a magnificent moustache said. "What else would you have us do?"

"The Band of Nine is coming with a fleet of over a hundred and fifty ships, and you will all be dead men if they are allowed to land. You have, after all, just killed their affiliates," Lelouch said. "I propose we don't let them land."

The pirates shared a look.

**-ZeroRequiem-**

"Are you done yet?" Donnall asked, right hand playing with his pommel

Wisdom Karpe shot him an annoyed look. "The substance is volatile at the best of times. This requires a delicate touch that is not to be rushed." He wiped his brow. "Or would you prefer to be incinerated?"

"Go on then."

Karpe continued to tinker with it some more before stepping back and nodding to himself.

"Done?"

"Yes, finally done you impatient whelp. As soon as one of these ships are rammed, the wildfire should be knocked loose and set the whale oil on fire. Now, we'd best leave quickly," he said, pushing past Donnall.

"Yes, I'd best do that," he said, drawing his sword.

"Have you seen Wisdom—"

Whatever Karpe was about to say was cut off as Donnall shoved his sword through the back of his knee. Karpe screamed.

"Are you insane!?" Karpe asked.

Donnall twisted the sword, and Karpe screamed again.

"Why are you doing this!?"

"I am my cousin's sword," Donnall said, pulling the blade out before spearing his other leg for good measure. It wouldn't do to have the man escape his fate somehow. "His enemies are my enemies, and his friends my friends."

"I've done n-nothing w-wrong against Lord Lelouch." Karpe sobbed. "This is all a misunderstanding. Don't leave me here!"

Donnall wiped the blood with the Wisdom's clothes. "For all your wisdom, Wisdom, you never thought playing with wildfire around the king might be a terrible idea?"

"Please, it wasn't me! It was the king who ordered it! It was the king!"

"Save your excuses for the Stranger," Donnall said, spitting in his face. "If it were up to me, I'd give you a more painful death, but Lelouch loves his ironies."

There was a knock on the door. "You done in there?" came Redmoore's voice.

Donnall walked out as Karpe continued to whimper on the floor.

Redmoore glanced back and whistled. "Good sword work. Very precise."

"I won't let him bleed to death before he faces the flames," Donnall said. "The others?"

"Taken care of," Redmoore said. "Now let's go 'fore we get roasted alongside these poor fuckers."

From the north, a hundred ships flying the purple banner of Tyrosh were headed straight for the Blood Strait.


	10. Backdraft

**Chapter 10: Backdraft**

The seabreeze cleared his head and brought wisdom.

"How did you get on my ship?" Lelouch asked as Cici redressed his wounded left palm. Stitched as it was, it still felt too light by far to him.

"Who would take care of you otherwise?" Cici said, the back of her hand a welcome warm against his forehead. "No fever. Good, at least it doesn't look like infection is taking hold."

"You can't answer a question with a question," Lelouch said.

"I go where my people go," Cici said.

"Your people?"

"The free Myrish. Any peoples who love pizza are my people," Cici said. "Also I'm their mayor."

Lelouch's brows rose a fraction. "They proclaimed you?"

"In a manner of speaking. I asked if anyone objected, and no one said a thing," she said.

"That's not how it should work," he said, shutting his eyes.

"We are working with primitive societies here. I improvised."

"Why do you even want to lead them?" Lelouch asked.

She gave him a winning grin. "So I can be given pizzas as tribute!"

Of course, why had he expected anything else? "I can have them made for you."

Cici scoffed. "It took me months to get it right with these people. I am _not _throwing away all of that work bringing culture to this backwards world."

Captain Bluebeard cleared his throat. "I'm sorry for interrupting, my lord, but what are 'pizzas'?"

"Myrish pies," Lelouch said. "Activity?"

"Our scouts ashore report movement to the north and southeast of Saintsport."

From Saintsport headed south, Bloodstone's shoreline curved out into the sea, creating a cozy pocket of water for his ships that also served to hide them from the approaching enemy's view.

"We have turned one battle into two," Lelouch said. "Do we know who we're facing?"

"Tyrosh will have their marinemen," Bluebeard said. "Reliable spearmen that have trained for a day like this. Long have the Archons dreamed of seizing the Stepstones."

"What of the other host?"

"Pirates, best as I can tell, fly Saan's Red Woman. Then again, it could just be some other Lyseni's banner. Not a very creative folk them," Bluebeard said. "My guess would be sellsails and pirates, some which have been recruited at swordpoint."

"Our new friends in Saintsport must be feeling angsty now. Best we show ourselves now," Lelouch said. "All ships, advance."

Altogether, some twenty-nine hundred Driftmark men and a thousand Tarth men-at-arms on ninety war galleys advanced. It was near the full muster of Driftmark, including various Crownlanders employed in the Driftmark Fleet and paid for by their meagre trade.

Lelouch's timing was not perfect. Hiding his fleet put them a little under thirty knots, roughly five hours, from Saintsport. If the pirate lords lost heart before Lelouch arrived, he'd be stuck out at sea separated from Redmoore and the Wendwater levies. Better they arrived a little earlier and let a few ships escape their net than risk the entire plan.

When Saintsport finally came into sight by far-eye, he indulged his eyes by lingering on the brightened Blood Strait to the north. Some forty Tyroshi ships had tried to ram their way through half their number, no doubt to link up with the allied pirate fleet sailing from Scarwood south of the straits. A score of his merchant cogs, older galleys, and floating pieces of driftwood some sea dogs called ships had been chained together at its narrowest point.

They served as ample fuel for wildfire pyre.

With passage through the Blood Strait denied, the enemy could only either retreat, giving them several more days, to fortify the island, or advance in separate groups that would not let them concentrate their greater host at the critical moment.

That still left them outnumbered at sea, with sixty vessels to fly the tower on purple beyond the wildfire wall and eighty corsairs closing on Saintsport, perhaps still thinking they had friends on the island. But numbers weren't everything in a fight, and it seemed their enemies were unaware there were more than thieves defending Bloodstone now as their fleet appeared behind the corsairs.

"No sign of Old Mother," Lelouch mused, putting down the far-eye.

"No," Bluebeard said.

_Strange,_ Lelouch thought. _Samarro Saan is the one with roots in Lys, yet he's here, and instead Old Mother is missing from action._

"Could they be hiding more ships somewhere?" Lelouch asked.

"On a day with storm skies overhead? They could be hiding a few in some of the larger rocks, though no great number I think," Bluebeard said.

Lelouch nodded and pointed straight at the rear of the corsair formation. "Let the sea dogs wrestle in the mud for Bloodstone. We will cut through their ships."

The _Seafyre_ picked up speed as it prepared to ram and men murmured prayers to the Seven. Lelouch winced as he grabbed his longbow with his injured hand.

"If you keep abusing your hand like this, your wounds won't heal properly," Cici chided.

"Just get below deck," Lelouch said, testing his draw. Still good.

To the credit of Saan, some of his ships had seen them coming and tried to steer north or circle back, but it was too late for the greater part of the fleet.

The waters splashed angrily as stones fell from the sky and threatened the half of the corsairs closer to the island. A thousand craftsmen under supervision did quick work building their siege crafts and the palisade of their camp. It was those same trebuchets they'd used against Saintsport that now protected it.

It seemed fighting had already begun in the streets from the brief glimpses of bared steel glistening in the sunlight.

They entered bow range, and Lelouch aimed at what he thought was a captain. The arrow downed the man, but a shaft to the shoulder was not fatal. The pirates used bows, but Driftmark had longbows. The pirates used javelins, but Driftmark had ballistas. Three volleys they exchanged and then—

_Seafyre_ shuddered as it's ornamental seahorse ram proved it wasn't just frills.

There wasn't much more to say about the battle. The corsairs were pinned between a hammer and anvil, with rocks and bolts showering their position. It was untenable, and they were not the bravest men to begin with, nor was this their fight in truth. Those that fought died, those that ran drowned, and those that didn't were shot.

Some twenty ships managed a breakout, mostly those farthest from the direction they'd struck from and trading their comrades' lives for their own. It did not matter.

Saan's ship was not among them. The escapees scattered.

"Blood and fire," Lelouch said, as he surveyed the wreckage. "Why is it always blood and fire?"

"Maybe you should stop torching everything in sight," Cici said. "Try water next."

**-ZeroRequiem-**

The Wendwaters did not fare so well.

"The Tyroshi have landed their marines," Redmoore said. "We harassed them as they did with bow. When I thought the time right, I tasked Ser Mortimer Creek to lead an attack, but it didn't break all of them. Men in fancy golden armor locked shields, rallying the Tyroshi to their side and breaking out of our encirclement."

"The Golden Company," Lelouch said. "How many of them did you see?"

"Half a thousand men, each wearing a lord's ransom, and an equal number of the Tyroshi managed to escape," Redmoore said. "The only spot of luck we had is that the Tyroshi fleet fled as the wildfire died down. They followed Serpentholm's shore north, tails behind their legs."

_Water doesn't affect wildfire, the ships probably just burned whole_, Lelouch thought. "Did you pursue?"

"I sent scouts to watch them, but night was falling," Redmoore said. "We can march at them on the morrow and bring them to heel."

"Do not underestimate the Golden Company," Lelouch said.

Redmoore frowned. "They're sellswords. They gave a proper fight, but they're still sellswords."

"My uncle feared those sellswords, and he is not a man to do so lightly," Lelouch said. "Where are they now?"

Redmoore pointed to a hill in the distance. "I've had scouts scorch the lands around them. They'll have little in the way of food or water to sustain them."

"That will make this easier," Lelouch said, then turned to Donnall. "Is it done?"

"I watched to make sure none might slip through," Donnall said. "Joined Ser Redmoore at the fight when I thought it ample."

"Well done. Get some food and rest, both of you. We will march early tomorrow," Lelouch said.

"My thanks, Lord Velaryon." Redmoore left, the sound of merriment and song streaming through clearer as the tent flapped.

"What of you?" Donnall asked. "Going to sit here and brood?"

"I might go find Cici," Lelouch said. "Who knows what might happen to her if left unattended."

"She is safe as can be here," Donnall said. "The men know that she is yours, and will not touch her, especially not after a victory like this. Outnumbered nearly two to one and you broke half of one host with barely any losses, and sent the other fleet running scared without a fight."

Lelouch grinned. "The trick of real combat is that everyone is human. It's not about killing the enemy, it's about driving the fear so deep into their hearts they dare not fight on."

"Ha! Mark my words, they'll sing songs about this for years to come."

They left later on the morrow than Lelouch would've liked, but the men had drank deeply from their bottles, and it was good for morale. There might be precious few chances to celebrate safely again.

The Golden Company had not moved from their position on the hill. Moving in the dark was dangerous business, and if their host broke apart further, no amount of discipline would spare them from the inevitable onslaught.

With Driftmark, Wendwater, Tarth, and corsair marching as one host, they outnumbered their enemy seven to one.

Lelouch ordered a flag of parley raised, and was accompanied by Ser Redmoore, Donnall, Lysandro, and a pirate lord by the name of Blackjaw. An equal number of men met them between the hilltop and the plains.

"Who do we have the pleasure of speaking to?" Ser Redmoore asked.

"Torman Oakheart, Captain of the Golden Company," the man said.

"I am Lord Lelouch Velaryon, heir to Driftmark and head of the host before you," Lelouch said. "Ser Oakheart, you are beaten."

Oakheart glanced at his men behind him, then at Lelouch's assembled troops. "My men still draw breath. We are not beaten."

"Samarro Saan is dead," Lelouch said. "Drowned in the sea with the rest of your fleet."

"I stand in service to His Grace, Maelys Blackfyre, First of His Name, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms," Oakheart said. "As for the fleet, what use do I have for ships? We stand on the solid ground we'd hoped to now."

Donnall clenched his jaw. "You're outnumbered."

"By a band of sellsails and traitors? I think not. Each of my men are worth a dozen of you, and I will stake my life on that wager," Oakheart said. "_Peace_ has made the lot of you soft. You will break on our spears and shields as surely as the tide breaks against stone."

"Soft?" Redmoore repeated dangerously. "It was not our host that ran from the field yesterday."

"We did not run," Oakheart said. "We completed a withdrawal in good order, as all captains of the Golden Company are taught to do under these circumstances."

"Bollocks!" Redmoore roared. "You want to settle this, boy? You and me, here and now!"

"You are not the head of your host," Oakheart said.

"You ought to hide your desperation better, Ser Oakheart. I could smell it from my camp," Lelouch said.

"Are you a coward who will not fight his own battles?"

Lelouch tilted his head and smiled. "I am not a fool to be goaded by a man who knows his situation is beyond dire. Let us face the facts, ser. My men have seen to it that you have no food, no water, no means of resupply, and no _rescue_. Whether it takes seven minutes or seven days, this can only end in one way. I am _inevitable_."

"We will not throw down our arms before a servant of the Pretender King," Oakheart said, face set.

Rain began to fall.

_Just my luck, _Lelouch thought. _Had this storm hit as it should have, my victory over Tyrosh would have been complete._

"It appears we've found water," Oakheart said. "The Seven smiles on us."

"You will still starve," Lelouch said, turning back.

"Bastards," Redmoore muttered. "Any other sellsword company would have broken under these conditions."

"The Golden Company is not like any other sellsword company," Lelouch said. "They are knights, or sons of knights, brought together by Bittersteel for one purpose: to kill who their king commands. They have never broken contract, and never lost a battle."

"Wear lots of gold," Lysandro said, running a thumb against his throat. "We more men, yes?"

"No, they have the high ground. Besides, we don't have to do a thing," Lelouch said. "Have the Myrmen raise a palisade and bring the ships around. Leave a way out though, small enough that a party of ten might slip through unnoticed."

"You want them to escape?" Redmoore asked.

"He wants to bleed them," Donnall said. "Every man that deserts is a man we rob from their formation, that we will not have to fight on high ground."

Lelouch nodded. "Men who think they have no choice but death fight harder. Do not worry, Ser Redmoore, you will take a hundred men and lie in ambush for the deserters. I know how boring sieges are to you."

Redmoore grinned. "I might live to see a proper war yet by your side, Seahorse."

**-ZeroRequiem-**

Siege was not a glamorous affair.

A hundred and a half things needed to be done, and none of them involved bloodying your sword. Palisades needed raising, ditches dug, and proper division of the camp to ensure good order. Fires had to be started and food cooked and water drawn. Weapons sharpened, sentries assigned.

"I do not understand why we don't just rush them," Blackjaw said as they sat around the war tent. "Hell, even without you, we have them dead to rights by ourselves. Redmoore butchered a hundred men last night."

"Tyroshi. None of them from the Golden Company," Donnall said.

"What does it matter?" Blackjaw said. "If we Bloodstone men attack them, we'd still have three men to their every one. Then we can be done with this business and go back to the wine and whores!"

There was also boredom.

"I've made my position on this clear," Lelouch said. "If you wish to attack them, go right ahead. I won't stop you, and you can even have the first pick of their bodies."

"But you no join us," Lysandro said.

Lelouch shrugged. "I will not waste the lives of my men. I'm in no great rush."

"Maybe we'll wait a few more nights, let them thin themselves out some," Blackjaw grumbled.

The next two nights were predictably dull. The pirate lords complained, but Redmoore was happy. Finally, the pirates had had enough and prepared to assault the hill. There were only six hundred men left, with most of the Tyroshi fled.

The pirate lords screamed in different tongues, making crude gestures at the Golden Company and promising their men gold and riches if they won.

"I didn't think they'd actually try it," Donnall said as the pirates slowly ascended.

"They think they have the advantage," Lelouch said. "They're used to fighting with numbers on their side, and have no patience for the finer aspects of warcraft. Plus, that is a lot of gold they wear. Might even be enough to buy a small keep put together."

"You're really not going to stop them? Donnall asked.

"Never interrupt your enemy while they're making a mistake, Cousin," Lelouch said.

"They fought with us."

"They're _sellsails_. They fight for us today, and slip us the knife tomorrow. Treachery is in their nature as sure as the Dornish are cunts," Lelouch said. "Bows, form up!"

Donnall whistled as first blood was drawn.

Despite being starved, sleep deprived, and outnumbered five to one, the Golden Company did not break. They thrusted and pushed and thrusted, buckling the pirate lines, and then the corsairs broke. Some of the sellswords gave chase, carving a bloody swath in the pursuit.

"To think," Lelouch said, "there are ten thousand of them in the Disputed Lands. Can you imagine it? With ten thousand men of that calibre, I could break the world." Lelouch sighed. "It almost hurts to do this. Bows, loose center mass!"

The arrowstorm fell upon fleeing pirates and overextended sellswords alike, killing more of the former than the latter. There were shouted commands in the distance, and the Golden Company reformed before another volley could be unleashed.

"The result was never in doubt, was it?" Donnall asked.

"No," Lelouch said, walking up to intercept a pirate lord, Redmaw or something to that effect.

"You shot at us!" he screamed in Tyroshi.

"I stopped them from pursuing," Lelouch replied in kind. "Or would you rather they had kept butchering you?"

Redmaw spat at his foot. "To hell with this fight. Those up there are no men. They're demons! I am going back to Saintsport."

"If you leave now, you forfeit your share of any loot from the bodies," Lelouch said.

"What use is gold to a dead man?"

Lelouch smiled. "That simplifies things quite a bit. We can bring out the ballistas now."

It took a few hours to position the siegecraft from _Season of Tides_ and its escorts, but they had plenty of that. The bolts ripped right through the golden formation. To their credit, they did not break at first, but the cracks were there. Four more volleys, and they shattered, attempting to charge downhill.

The rest was cleanup. Without their phalanx, they were just lone men, and lone men died easily in battle.

**-ZeroRequiem-**

Even his newfound piles of gold did nothing to wash away the bitter taste of victory. Maybe it was just the ale though.

"Things," Zoutos drawled, holding a goblet of swill like it was an Arbor vintage, "have not gone according to plan."

Cici translated for the others in the room.

"That's putting it mildly," Lelouch said.

The table shuddered as Redmoore banged his fists against it. "Two weeks! Two fookin' weeks ago they should've arrived! We've been sitting on our asses here, twiddlin' our thumbs, and all of a sudden the war is _over_?"

Lelouch raised his good hand. "That's not what I said."

Redmoore glared. "I heard what you said. 'Difficulties in weather' and 'logistical challenges'. That's pisstalk for we've been left out to dry! No one is coming to help us, which means the war is as good as over. 'Continued state of hostilities' my ass."

"It could be genuine concerns," Donnall said, nursing his cup. "We've been getting hit by storms all week now."

"This weather is nothin' to the Ironborn."

"And the Redwynes," Zoutos said, "have a great many ships. Their people are not unfamiliar with the narrow sea's temperament. Weather may cause delay, but not two weeks worth of delay. In Myr, we would call this 'a contract in bad faith'."

"There is nothing to do for now but continue as we are," Lelouch said.

"Easy for you to say," Redmoore said. "You get to get off this godforsaken shithole and meet the king again."

A rather unflattering description of things. There was no castle, and the food and drink was a little plainer, but other than that life on Bloodstone was fairly similar to Driftmark. The weather was an improvement even, when it wasn't raining. Their camp on the hills overlooking Saintsport had been improved by a new wooden barracks and dirt paths to the nearest farming villages. Oh, and a whorehouse.

Food and fucking: the absolute essentials to camp morale.

"Rest assured, Ser Redmoore, I will petition the king most vigorously to see this war set back on its proper course," Lelouch said, pushing his half empty cup away. "In my absence, I will leave you in overall command of the camp."

"What a great honor that is when there's nothing left to kill," Redmoore said. "Are you sure we still need the pirates?"

"If we burn down their city, the whores will burn with them," Lelouch said.

"I'm not saying we burn them—"

"A sack would see our strength wasted," Lelouch said. "If we are weakened, there will be fewer battles we can fight in in the future. We don't want that, do we?"

"I s'pose not," Redmoore said.

Lelouch nodded. "Good. Magister Zoutos, if you'd stay awhile? I'd have your thoughts on some matters of logistics."

When it was just them (and Cici) in the room, Zoutos spoke, "You have _never _consulted me about matters of logistics. What is this really about?"

"I have a problem, you see," Lelouch said.

"The slaves," Cici added, then leaned back with a grin to watch it unfold.

Zoutos frowned. "What about them?"

"I need them freed," Lelouch said.

"In Myr—"

"I know what this is in Myr," Lelouch said. "We are not in Myr, we are on this island trying to get _back_ to Myr."

"The matter was settled," Zoutos said, draining his cup and slamming it down on the table. "We support your war, you let us keep our slaves. We help you get revenge, you make us kings of Myr. Was this not what we agreed upon?"

"It was," Lelouch said.

"Then I do not see the problem."

"The problem is that this matter has grown beyond us," Lelouch said. "We cannot wage this war on our own. Without the Seven Kingdoms, there will be no _kings_ of Myr. Just one king whose name is Liomond Lashare."

Zoutos played with the rings that adorned all his fingers. His favorite one was on his left pinky—a simple band of silver with a ruby. "Then our contract cannot be fulfilled. This happens all the time. With the gold and ships you've seized, you can easily repay the loans we've extended you."

"You and I both know that's not happening," Lelouch said.

Zoutos shrugged. "No matter."

"You will have to relocate as well. Your business is beginning to settle in Driftmark."

"There is no _business_ if you free my slaves," Zoutos said. "Better to start from scratch again then to lose it all."

"What if I told you there was a way?" Lelouch asked.

"To keep my slaves? It is simple. Do not take them."

Lelouch shook his head. "No. What if I could make you kings of Myr if you freed your slaves?"

Zoutos assessed him, and leaned forward. "This has something to do with the king's delay?"

"Not the reason behind it," Lelouch said, "but it might help fix it."

"So you know the reasons?"

"I have my suspicions, but I will need to confirm them," Lelouch said.

"Tell me," Zoutos said.

So he did.

Zoutos nodded. "The logic seems sound, but even if I agreed to this, the others would not."

"Therein lies my problem," Lelouch said.

"I might have a solution," Zoutos said. "From what I understand, what you really need is not their freedom, but the appearance of it, yes?"

"I don't care much either way. The appearance of freedom is fine, as long as it is not discovered to be false."

The magister grinned. "It will not be discovered until it is too late. Even this scheme fooled the Braavosi, and they have a mind for trade beyond the grasp of your lords. We can follow Pentos."

"Elaborate," Lelouch said.

"Fifty years ago, Pentos lost a war with Braavos and were forced to abolish slavery, so they did in name," Zoutos said. "But in truth, slavery continued. The freed people were given wages, but were charged for food and shelter whose costs surpassed it. They were given contracts of employment that lasted a year, but could be renewed indefinitely. Unpayable debts were made, which the masters forgave if the contract was renewed."

"Devious," Lelouch said. "But I care not for the details of it. Will it convince Glossos and Rasporos to stay on?"

"I believe so, but realize that your leverage—"

"Will be lost," Lelouch said. "I lose my threat, my only threat, for then they are not masters of slaves, but masters of free men. Little better than smallfolk, if from a different land. If that is what it takes to get my uncle back, so be it."

**-ZeroRequiem-**

Their return to Driftmark was delayed by passing storms, but even storms could not stop the inevitable.

Spicetown was coming along nicely, with many wooden huts finishing construction and some semblance of order being forced upon the city. The magisters were used to a certain way of things, and the Myrmen were used to obeying those certain ways of things. Straight roads and blocks took shape, and certain crafts became established.

Even its pier was widened enough to let _Seafyre _dock, though it would be years before they could build ships from here.

"Glossos was always particular with how he did business," Zoutos said as they rode for the castle. "Once, I remember he ruined an entire man's business just to buy him out and demolish it, so he could shorten the walk between his storefronts."

Mother and Omorfia were waiting when they arrived, and Lelouch heard it before he saw it.

The sound of a babe wailing in Mother's arms.

"Is this really—?"

"I found him where you said I would," Mother said. "This is the child."

"What of his mother?" Lelouch asked.

Mother shook her head, frowning. "I'm told the birth was hard on her."

"She taught me how to play Cyvasse, you know?" Lelouch said, a twinge pulling at his heart. He had not known Mysaria all that well, but no child ought to grow up without their mother. "Has the body been buried?"

"Your father would never permit her to be buried in the crypts, but I found a nice plot of land just outside the castle," Mother confirmed.

"Thank you for doing this."

"Of course, he's family," Mother said. "I… did not think it right for me to name him."

Lelouch nodded and took the babe in his arms, holding it like a glass bowl that might break at the slightest turmoil. His skin was softer probably than a pillow, and definitely softer than the hard beds of campaign. "Donnall, come meet your half-brother."

"My half-brother?" Donnall said, raising his brow. "How is it that you know of him and I don't?"

"Because I pay attention," Lelouch said smugly.

"_I should name him after a great hero. Mayhaps Alyn?"_

Lelouch cooed at the child. "Mayhaps I'll name him after his father. Do you want to be Adamm Waters?"

The baby giggled and grabbed at his fingers.

"What do you plan to do with my brother?" Donnall asked. "Raise him here?"

"Yes, though I'd see him consecrated before the Seven first, as any proper child ought to be," Lelouch said.

"We can have Septa Kailsey do that," Mother said.

"Nonsense! He's our kin by blood, if not by name," Lelouch said. "I will be going to King's Landing within the week. With luck, I can convince His High Holiness to bless the child."

"His High Holiness blessing a bastard?" Donnall said with a grin. "You jest."

"I can be very convincing when I want to."

"You will need a lady to go with you to care for him."

Omorfia blew a strand of black hair from her eyes and walked up to them. "A beautiful child. If you are going to King's Landing, I can accompany you," she said with a smile.

"Are you sure?" Lelouch asked.

"With grandfather back, there will be little left for me to manage," Omorfia said. "I do not like being idle."

"I suppose that would be fine, though I would send someone to assist you," Mother said then her voice turned somber. "Lelouch, there's someone else you should see while you're here."

A cold hand gripped his chest. "Where?"

Mother looked to the window of a short, squat tower, where servants might live.

**-ZeroRequiem-**

The room was well-aired, with plenty of windows for light to shine through. It was necessary, for there were no torches lit and no torches could be lit. It was utterly without glass, even those the windows used to have were shattered and replaced by good oaken boards. And doors there were plenty of too, leading to everywhere, but several outside.

It was a place with little privacy had the entire tower more than one occupant.

"Alarra," Lelouch called out.

She visibly winced, and kept her body turned away from him.

Gods be good, her hair was beginning to grow back at least, and with time cover the scars on her neck and shoulder. Lelouch stepped towards her, and called out again. "Sister, look at me."

"Go away, brother," Alarra said.

His heart shattered like he did to his enemies. "I'm your brother. I will not leave you."

"You do not understand," Alarra said. "I'm… I am hideous now. If you see me, you will not remember who I once was. How pretty I used to be. You will not _like_ me anymore."

"I have already seen what the fire did to you," Lelouch said, and he saw her shoulders sag. "It doesn't matter. You will always be beautiful to me."

"I have lived with you all my life. I know when you are _lying_!" She turned around. Her eyes, normally so vivid and filled with the spark of life, were a muted shade. There was a _wrongness _to them.

He hugged her tight, too afraid to let go, as if she might combust if he slackened even by a little, even for awhile. "Then you know I speak the truth when I say that you are my sister. Nothing will ever change that."

"E-even my dreams have been stolen," she whispered with a sob, "even in my dreams I see it, burning everything. Everyone."

"I cannot m-marry Prince Aerys now," Alarra whimpered. "I am marred. Unfit. Father will not s-say it, but it is why he sent me away. He cannot stand the look of me. He cannot look at the daughter that can no longer wed. What u-use am I to him now?"

He pulled back, and cupped her face. "Father is wrong. The world is wrong. There is more to you than who you might one day marry," Lelouch said. "I will always be your loving brother."

"But you are leaving again soon?"

"I have to," Lelouch said.

"But why?" she pleaded. "S-stay here with me. Forget King's Landing and Essos."

Lelouch looked her in the eye, unflinching. "I go so that _no one_," —his eyes flashed— "will ever hurt you like this again."

_The work is half-done._


	11. Interlude - the Seven

**Chapter 11: Interlude - the Seven**

Jaron Velaryon watched the _Seafyre _leave King's Landing with a sense of dread. "Stranger take you, Baratheon."

The tide ebbs.

He'd hoped to give Lelouch experience at sea under the watchful eye of Adamm, mayhaps win a battle or two before testing him with true command. Not like this though, with the numbers so skewed against them!

But Lelouch's willfulness and Baratheon's ploy had trapped him. What was he to do? Had Lelouch's plan been less thought through, it could have been dismissed as a child out for vengeance or glory. But Royce had to make his quip, insult his family! It could not go unanswered.

Then the Hand put the final nail in by consenting and the matter was out of his hands. King Jaehaerys did not act without support from his small council, unlike Aegon.

What was he to do then? Speak out after having given his implicit support? He would look the fool.

If the Seven were kind, Lelouch might live through a narrow victory. A storm or some divine act would deliver it into his hands, though it would be costly. A defeat would be a setback, and might threaten Lelouch's right to be master of ships when his time came. But if he died...

What a fine mess his damned pride had landed them in. That was the truth of it. To want his future grandson to sit on the Iron Throne, was that such a crime?

He had lost one child to fire already, would the gods rob him of another? Wildfire was volatile on the best of days. Besides, the Wisdoms of the Alchemists' Guild had failed already, which was why they were in this position to begin with. At least Lelouch had taken his own precautions to keep the ship carrying wildfire at a distance.

Would it be enough? So many things could go wrong. At this time of year, even the seas might claim his son. It would be poetic, and the gods loved such things if His High Holiness' ministrations had any truth to them.

_Warrior_ _give him courage. Smith steer his ship_, Jaron thought, and whispered, "Mother have mercy. He is a boy for a few months still, not even a man grown."

If the Wisdoms burned his son, he would put their whole guild in King's Landing to the sword, and pox on any man who thought to stop Jaron Velaryon!

"You spoke with my son, did you not, Ser Dennis?" Jaron asked.

The Knight of the Seax nodded. "Briefly when I escorted him to the Red Keep, my lord."

"You've never made your thoughts unclear when prompted. What do you think of him?"

"Angry," Ser Dennis said immediately, "and clever. That makes him dangerous."

Jaron tipped his head. "Explain."

"It's in his eyes. Constantly seeking, swaying here and there. He takes in everything around him, and asks plenty of questions." Ser Dennis paused. "He hides it well, but I've seen rage in my life, and I saw it in him that day. His uncle, and then his sister… I do not know who he blames for it, but I would hate to be them. Your son's anger is no bonfire to burn bright and die quick, but a low simmer. It may be months or years before he lets it go, if he ever does."

"Lelouch has always been smart, too much for his own good at times," Jaron said. "Do you think he is blind to his rage?" _Will he make a mistake that kills him_?

"Respectfully, you already know the answer to that, my lord," Ser Dennis said. "He _will _succeed. You must have faith in him."

"I am a father. It is my prerogative to worry," Jaron said, then fell silent. There were cruelties at court that came with its comforts. He would spare his daughter that pain, now that a match with Aerys was impossible. Mayhaps time with family would help her in ways he could not. "Alarra… my daughter must leave King's Landing as soon as she is able. I entrust her life to you once again, as I did before."

"As soon as the maesters give the word, my lord."

"Let us return for supper." _I have let grief take me long enough. My work is half-done. _

Candles from the Great Sept of Baelor lined the streets, set in front of houses. The people still mourned for King Aegon nearly a month after his passing. He had been a man for the smallfolk, and the many protections he'd granted them were unheard of in both breadth and depth.

As with any change, many lords protested or ignored his directives, but King's Landing was the heart of Targaryen power. Here, if no where else, the king's word was law, and that law was absolute. Small wonder the people still prayed for his return, and cursed the new regime bitterly through no fault of King Jaehaerys.

The anger had cooled some now. No longer was riot considered the greatest threat to the new regime, though that was less due to anything Royce and Baratheon had done and more the existential threat Blackfyre's Band of Nine posed.

_Or should it be Band of Eight now? _Jaron thought as he entered the king's feast hall within Maegor's Holdfast.

"Tardiness," Baratheon said, raising a goblet to his lips, "is unbecoming of you, Lord Velaryon."

Jaron bowed slightly to King Jaehaerys and Queen Shaera besides him. "Your Grace, I must beg your pardon. I was seeing my son off."

"It is of no concern," the king said. "Have a seat. The food has just arrived."

Jaron sat across the queen, between the bowl of oxtail soup and salad of spinach, sweetgrass, plums, candied nuts, and violets that she was fond of. A servant poured his preferred Highgarden vintage instead of Arbor gold as most lords liked. He found the Arbor grapes too sweet for his tongue.

"Your son has caused quite the stir, Lord Velaryon," the king said. "You should have brought him to court sooner."

"I will endeavor to do so in the future, Your Grace," Jaron said after swallowing a sliver of roasted venison with apples and onions on a bed of Essosi herbs.

"I heard he even bested young Steffon in a spar while he was here," the king said, raising a brow at his good-brother.

Ormund Baratheon nodded, lips set in a thin line. "That he did, though it was not a proper and honorable fight. Sand was used."

"It is no more honorable to choose a foe with only one good hand," Jaron said.

"He scorned the princess," Baratheon said. "Even Prince Aerys fought for her honor."

"The poor boy was in grief," Queen Shaera said. "It has not been an easy time for any of us."

"Aye," Ormund said solemnly, meeting Jaron's eye. The matter was dropped.

"How have my Lords Paramount responded, Good-brother?" the king asked.

"As well as can be expected, Your Grace," Baratheon said. "Ten thousand men gather at Lannisport, with pledged levies from the stormlands, riverlands, and the Vale of Arryn numbering half that each. Luthor Tyrell is raising a host equal that combined, and has broken open his stores of grain for the campaign. Even Quellon Greyjoy is gathering his Iron Fleet."

King Jaehaerys speared his potted hare with a fork. "Will it be enough?"

"The Golden Company numbers but ten thousand men," Baratheon said. "We will easily command six times that when all have gathered."

"Maelys commands nearly that many if we put all his allies together," the king said, brow furrowing. "We will be landing too."

_Even the king does not believe victory is certain._

"Mayhaps Jaron's son might win us a great victory, and see the war moot," Baratheon said with a sly grin. "I expect, at the very least, he ought to be able to secure a beachhead for us if he's half as competent as we've been led to believe."

Another of Baratheon's traps; to begin with the impossible so that the unreasonable might seem expected. Everyone knew Lelouch's odds were unfavorable to achieve even that without crippling losses. To show support would only make it worse if he failed, and to temper expectations would be to betray his own house.

Jaron said nothing.

**-ZeroRequiem-**

Lelouch had done it!

Jaron's chest swelled with warmth as he read through the letter for a third time. Another's victory had never tasted so sweet to him before. With this, perhaps there was hope to salvage the disaster Summerhall had been for the Velaryon name.

"Victory," he announced finally to the small council, a wide smile blooming.

"What sort?" Baratheon asked.

"Total," Jaron said. An exaggeration, but only a little.

"We will need more details than that, Lord Jaron," Lord Edgar said.

"Of the one hundred and eighty ships arrayed against him, some eighty ships managed to escape."

Gerold whistled.

That wasn't all. "The Golden Company have also suffered the first of many defeats at my son's hand," Jaron said. "A contingent of their men landed ashore, but their ships were driven off. They were surrounded, then slaughtered to a man. Several thousand of our enemies are slain, and among them is Samarro Saan."

"These Ninepenny Kings die like flies," Tymor Lannister said. "Sevenpenny Kings now, I suppose."

"Losses?" Lord Neleus Royce asked.

"A few ships, and some two hundred men. Most unfortunate is that the wisdoms were killed in battle. A Tyroshi ship rammed them before they could escape, and the conflagration no doubt took them," Jaron said.

"Fitting," Gerold said, "that they've redeemed themselves this way."

"Your son has surpassed our wildest expectations, Lord Velaryon," King Jaehaerys said.

Jaron grinned, glancing at Lord Royce. "Like I said, he is a Velaryon. He was born to ride the tide."

"This Maelys must be a thrice-damned fool," Royce said, "to be beaten so badly by an untested child on his first campaign. How far the Blackfyres have fallen, to be reduced into this pitiful thing."

"Mayhaps the war will end before we even reach the Stepstones," Tymor said.

"We ought to spread word of this," Jaron said. "Surely what few friends Blackfyre might call on will see his cause futile after this."

King Jaehaerys nodded. "See it done, Grandmaester Pycelle."

_A war hero to whom the Targaryens owed their pretty crown would be a fitting prince consort. _Jaron thought, smirking at Baratheon. _Certainly more worthy to be good-brother than the son of a rebel. _They would strengthen old ties through the truth of brave deeds.

The tide flows.

The ravens were sent, and by sundown the whole city knew what had occurred.

**-ZeroRequiem-**

"Another delay, I'm afraid," Lord Edgar said. "This time from the Reach. Heavy rains have muddied the roads. Several leading carts and wagons were tipped over, and Lord Tyrell refuses to send his van ahead."

King Jaehaerys tapped his fingers against the table. "We seem to get more and more of those each day. At this rate, Lelouch Velaryon may finish turning Bloodstone into his Harrenhal before the realm sends him any of the men or ships that we've promised! That seems the only progress we're making in this bloody war!"

The small council remained silent, and King Jaehaerys sighed. "How many days has it been now?"

"Nineteen, Your Grace," Gerold said. "If you would permit me, I can set sail with the levies that have already arrived."

"Some twenty-five hundred men if I recall," King Jaehaerys said, looking at Lord Royce for confirmation.

"Twenty-seven hundred men as of last count," Royce said. "Though the problem of supplies is not yet resolved."

"Can they not simply live off the land when they get there?" Lord Edgar asked.

Neleus Royce shook his head. "From the reports we've received, Bloodstone has but some small farming villages and fisheries. It has land to grow more crops, but that would take time to cultivate. Woods must be cleared. The island has long been a pirate haven, it is not used to supporting so many men, and is stretched to capacity as it is."

"It does not help that men fear winter may lengthen on us, Your Grace," Grand Maester Pycelle chimed in. "It has been a warmer winter than usual, but still a winter nonetheless. Besides, it has been getting cooler as of late, though the Citadel has not finished its assessments to say."

"Of course its getting cooler," Baratheon said. "The storms have not let up all week! In case they've forgotten, the harshest and rarest of storms come with winter."

"Is there a reason for these delays?" Jaron asked. "Surely foul weather alone cannot be the only explanation."

The master of whisperers shrugged. "With Bloodstone securely in our hands and Maelys Blackfyre having made no further moves at sea, there are whispers that the Blackfyre has given up on his claim and is content to be King of the Disputed Lands."

"He is building a fleet, no doubt," Jaron said. "Two Free Cities are in his grasp. One has just lost a good portion of their fleet, the other saw their port burned. Both by my son. They are biding their time. Besides, what further moves need they make? Everything from Redwater to Pryr has been taken."

"Gold is drying up as well," Tymor said. "Trade with Essos has come to a screeching halt with Old Mother's ships menacing the seas once more. Few have enough warships to make the corsairs hesitate."

"Perhaps you ought to find other sources for coin then, Lord Ty_more_," Jaron said. "Or have the mines of Casterly Rock run dry?"

Tymor scowled. "I can petition Lord Tytos for more funds, but cannot guarantee his answer."

"It strikes me odd that Lord Tytos has enough gold to loan the Reynes and Tarbecks, but not the Iron Throne," Lord Edgar said. "Especially after all King Aegon has done for him."

"I cannot speak for him," Lord Tymor said.

Edgar offered them a slight smile, and turned to King Jaehaerys. "Some men also think that this war will be a quick affair after Lelouch Velaryon's easy victory. Reach knights ride like they might to a tourney."

"Maelys Blackfyre is still a very real threat," Gerold said tersely.

"I know that, and you know that, Lord Commander," Edgar said. "The problem is the rest of the realm doesn't. Few men still live that remember Daemon Blackfyre and the First Rebellion save in the songs and stories. They saw the Third and the Fourth though, pitiful fights that those were. What did they bring to bare save some ragtag sellswords carrying tattered banners?"

"They have many, many more sellswords now," Jaron said.

"Sellswords have no discipline and no loyalty," Gerold said. "I do not blame men for thinking the war is just waiting to be won. Had I not known better, I would count myself amongst them."

King Jaehaerys scowled.

"If I might make a suggestion, Your Grace?" Jaron asked. "In the interest of morale, perhaps we ought to call my son back to King's Landing and honor him with a procession. A reminder to the smallfolk that we are still _winning_ this war, though little of late has occurred. And perhaps once our lords and knights see your open hand, it might light a fire in their bellies once more."

And a chance to show off Lelouch to Princess Rhaella and every other highborn lady looking for a husband. What maiden didn't swoon over a hero? People liked those even more than knights on a tourney!

"I agree, Your Grace," Baratheon said, to Jaron's surprise. "It would be good for the realm."

_And shame those lords that dragged their feet._

King Jaehaerys stood. "See it done."

**-ZeroRequiem-**

Though untrained and possessing little discipline or martial value, the City Watch of King's Landing nonetheless served as excellent parade props in their gold cloaks and gleaming black armor.

The past three days had been an exercise in longsuffering as Jaron helped Lord Royce teach these men how to march in formation, and their officers the proper commands for drill. It had all been worth it to see them march behind his son in their perfect squares, sorted by companies of a hundred.

The procession entered through the River Gate as soon as Lelouch disembarked from the _Seafyre_ atop his silver-grey Seasmoke that morning. A cloak of Myrish lace was draped across his shoulders, Targaryen black instead of Velaryon aquamarine. It was difficult to tell watching from afar, but the fabric looked newly woven, though was no less fine for it. Procured from those Myrmen Lelouch had brought to Driftmark's shores no doubt.

"Would you like to see, Princess Rhaella?" Jaron asked, offering her his far-eye.

She accepted daintily, but with muted enthusiasm. Her anger at Lelouch had soothed some with time, but the slate was not cleared. There would be plenty of time to work on that. If he had to lock the boy up in the Red Keep until they were cordial with each other, so be it.

Behind his son followed Lords Tarth and Wendwater, though neither man had sent a son to fight in their stead. Still, Jaron could not begrudge them a share in the honor. They had kept faith with his house and victory could not have been won without their commitment. Flags depicting the silver seahorse, sun and crescents, and the river and three trees flew high, but chief amongst these was the three-headed red dragon on a field of black.

It was Lelouch's triumph, but in service of the Targaryen cause.

Men in the streets were calling it the Bloodying of the Stepstones. Others preferred the Seafyre Battle. To Jaron, it mattered little, so long as they remembered it was won with Velaryon skill at arms. After they finished circling the outskirts, everyone would.

"If I might be so bold, Your Grace, might you consent to speak with my son again? Under more pleasant circumstances this time I assure you," Jaron said. "Lelouch feels _terrible _for how he acted towards you and wishes to beg forgiveness," he lied easily.

"Lelouch is not so bad once you've pruned his thorns," Aerys added, keeping one ear open apparently. The support was a welcome surprise.

"I… I suppose I could find it in my heart to give him a few minutes," Rhaella said, a little more fire in her eyes betraying her. She did admirably hiding it, but the princess was many years his junior in this and age. "He did fight for my father's right to sit on the Iron Throne."

"Lelouch will be most pleased to hear of this!" Jaron said. _Time to put his skill at mummery to good use. _

Princess Rhaella's brow scrunched. "Were they not supposed to head here after assembling at the Wisdom's Square?"

Jaron's lips thinned and he took back the far-eye, setting his gaze towards the center of the city where the Guild of the Alchemists stood.

_What is he up to now_?!

Lelouch seemed to exchange some pleasantries with Wisdom Dode, and for a second, a stone dropped on Jaron's chest as his heart beat loudly in his ears.

Surely he wouldn't be fool enough to _kill_ them all in broad daylight? Hero he might be, but committing brazen slaughter would see him dead.

Then the moment passed. Lelouch tipped his head towards the alchemists, and headed up Visenya's Hill.

"I didn't take him to be an overly pious man," Aerys commented. "Though I suppose if the gods granted me a victory like his, I'd utter the seven prayers too."

Lelouch was praying besides His High Holiness, and seemed to be sharing words of platitude with the crowd.

_Why is it_, Jaron thought as he saw heads dip in mass prayer, _my own blood that ruins my best laid plans_?

**-ZeroRequiem-**

Most people noticed the Iron Throne first when entering the great oak and bronze doors. It was not by accident. Its own misshapen design was meant to be as much eye catching as it was terrifying. Were that not enough by itself, the long carpet from the door led to it, and even fully packed at four thousand courtiers, the carpets were always kept clear.

But seeing the Iron Throne a few thousand times, admittedly a luxury few men had, and it started to lose some of the magic behind it. It was a _chair_ built from swords of men two-and-a-half centuries ago.

But the dragon skulls… those had always terrified a primal part of Jaron that steel could not.

To see the size of them… how large Balerion the Black Dread must've been! Certainly large enough to swallow a man while, or torch any fleet that dared take up arms against the Iron Throne. Sure the kings dressed them up alongside pretty banners, but when Jaron was little larger than a single tooth, it was difficult not to be awed. That there were eighteen more skulls of various sizes adorning the walls, perhaps it was fortuitous no real dragons were left.

"Your Grace, Lord Lelouch Velaryon, most loyal servant of the Iron Throne, Great Victor of the Seafyre Battle and Conqueror of Bloodstone, Heir to Castle Driftmark and House Velaryon," the herald said.

The first of those titles, normally reserved for defeated traitors seeking pardon, had been added at Lelouch's insistence, in spite of Jaron's protests. As he expected, it caused many brows to arch.

Even King Jaeherys took notice. "You have won us a great victory against the Blackfyre. Recount your victory to the court, if you would."

So Lelouch began speaking, and Jaron's dread grew.

The fool boy did not speak of great charges of horse and foot or cunning traps sprung. No grand speeches to bolster his men's fading morale, or a desperate attack that slew the enemy commander, or heroic last stands. Instead, Lelouch spoke of butchery, blood, and death. Of encampments, maneuvers, fortification, and siege craft.

The courtiers were no less captivated by his tale, to Jaron's surprise, but it was unorthodox in the extreme to give such a true to life recounting. In some places, he suspected his son was exaggerating details to make the experience more akin to a close and bitter fought victory.

"You defeated the Golden Company in the field, did you not?" Prince Aerys asked.

"Five hundred men out of ten thousand," Lelouch said. "Abandoned by their allies, without support from horse or bow, without food or wood for camp and only rainwater to keep themselves from death. All of that, with little sleep, facing an entrenched host six times their size _with ballistas_, and they did not bow or bend. They broke first."

"You sound as if you respect them for that," King Jaeherys said.

"I do, Your Grace. With ten thousand men of such discipline, loyalty, and skill at arms behind me, I would not fear any army no matter the size," Lelouch said. "And they will have heavy horses, goldenheart bows, and elephants the next time, with great trains of food to keep their strength. They are not a foe to treat lightly."

It clicked in Jaron's head that this was yet more mummery. The triumph had been to shame lords who dragged their feet, this was to show them there was glory to be had, that the war would not be over easily or quickly.

All it had cost his son was the apathy of maidens fair and mockery of some highlords. Too high a price in Jaron's opinion.

"If I might present my gift, Your Grace?" Lelouch said.

King Jaeherys nodded.

Two men dragged a cart inside piled with gold. Not coins though. Large armbands that a small dog court pass through, the pommel of a bastard sword, chainmail, a flag, a helm and a full set of plate armor gilded, all of it gleaming.

"A lord could be seized by his debtors for this much vanity," King Jaeherys said. "Did you seize every shiny thing they had?"

"I did, Your Grace, but this is from but one man only. The other four hundred and ninety-nine were similarly well-dressed."

"You have done us a great service, and loyal, honorable service begets reward," the king said.

"In truth, I am undeserving. I vowed to see the work done, and Maelys Blackfyre lives still," Lelouch said. "I could not accept reward for a task uncompleted."

Jaron resisted the urge to groan as the tittering picked up. _Just ask for something, anything, you fool_!

"Yet, I would be a poor king and lord to let great deeds pass without proper regard," the king said, eyes flashing. "And they are _great_ deeds indeed."

No more false humility about the battle. Lelouch ought to understand that much at least. "As you say, Your Grace. Then if I might be so bold, I would ask of you the right to crenellate."

"Does your family not have a castle on Driftmark already?" Baratheon asked.

"We do, and it is a stout castle that secures the Prince's Strait with Dragonstone," Lelouch said. "Yet the Gullet remains open and unguarded. If you would permit me, I would raise up High Tide, the seat of the Sea Snake, to higher heights, but with stone instead of weirwood. With it, I might secure King's Landing from any invasion by sea for a thousand years. It is my great regret that it may not finish before this war ends, but it will be ready before the next one begins."

Jaron felt faint. _I know I said anything, but I had hoped for something that would not impoverish us._

"You will have all this and more, Lelouch Velaryon, Lord Seafyre," the king said. "A castle is most expensive to raise in full, and doubly so during a war. Royal assistance will be extended to you and your kin to see this work done, in both gold and workmen. So says your king."

"As the king decrees," Baratheon said, a mite displeased.

"As the king decrees," the rest repeated.

Thank the Seven the king wanted to be seen as generous, or instead of the Iron Throne, his descendants might have to sit on a wooden stool.

**-ZeroRequiem-**

"You dragged me out here at this time of day to see a babe blessed?" Jaron asked incredulously.

"He is our kin, Father. Your nephew, Uncle Adamm's son," Lelouch said.

"A bastard."

"Mind your language," the Essosi girl chided. She was a lithe and sun-kissed, not wholly unlike the salt Dornish. Pretty, with smouldering eyes and an exotic touch to her. "We stand among the gods."

"You don't even believe in the Seven, Omorfia," Donnall pointed out, clearly amused by the whole scene.

"No," Omorfia admitted, sidling besides his son that was too close to be proper. With the babe in her arms, one might think they were a couple from afar. "But I respect its sacred space all the same."

_Will the gods hate me more for swearing in a sept than outside of it? _Jaron thought, but kept his tongue still. He could hear the sound of footfalls against the marble flooring.

"Be welcome," the High Septon said in his plain brown robes, peering at Omorfia's arms. "Is this the child?"

Lelouch nodded. "Yes, Your High Holiness. My cousin, Adamm Waters."

The High Septon nodded, a serene look on his face. "Do forgive me for not wearing the Crystal Crown, my lords. I find it distasteful and rather tacky."

Septons renounced their family name, and the High Septon, being higher, renounced names altogether. It made recording the histories of the Faith _difficult_ to say the least, as the High Septons were referred to by descriptions. This one would be called the High Septon during the reign of King Aegon V who wore no crown.

"I thought the Faith frowned on blessing children born out of wedlock," Jaron said.

"Many septons and septas do, my lord," he said, "but I do not share their opinion. Children ought not to be punished for the sins of their sires."

"Is being withheld blessing a punishment?" Jaron asked.

The High Septon smiled and took young Adamm into his arms. "Is being kept from the loving embrace of our gods a punishment?" He turned to Lelouch. "Is the mother with us?"

"She passed away while giving birth."

"A tragedy," the High Septon said, sounding genuinely distressed to hear it. "This world is a cruel place to children."

Would he feel the same if he knew a whore from Lys named Mysaria was the mother? The Lyseni magisters did love giving their bed slaves names of famous women. Jaron supposed some men got a kick out of it.

The Consecration was a ceremony as simple as the holy man. Some blessed water dabbed on the babe's head, a brief reading from _The Seven-Pointed Star _about the Mother Above, and a prayer. "Is there any of the Seven you wish to dedicate the child to?" the High Septon asked.

"The Mother Above," Lelouch said, "to keep him safe. May she be merciful."

A common choice, though many lords preferred to offer their sons to the Warrior. Lelouch himself was given to the Crone.

"The child's mother was a bed slave from Lys," Lelouch said to the High Septon, before looking at the man. "They have many slaves in Essos, three to every free man and woman. More than I thought possible for decent people to have."

"One slave is one too many," the High Septon said sadly. "Long has slavery been a sore point for the Most Devout, but there is precious little to be done about it."

"What if there was a way?" Lelouch asked.

**-ZeroRequiem-**

Jaron spied at Lelouch from the corner of his eye. He had managed to get his son, war hero that he was, seated in a place of honor on the high table with the king's family. If he found himself besides Princess Rhaella, that was just a happy coincidence wasn't it?

"I must apologize for my coarse words the other day, Princess," Lelouch said. "It has been a trying time for me."

"I can imagine," Rhaella said.

"You are aware," Lelouch said, meeting Jaron's eyes briefly, "that my father wishes to wed me to you."

Rhaella frowned. "He does?"

"All lords do," Lelouch said. "Not all lords are as close to the royal family though."

"Why are you telling me this?" Rhaella demanded, spearing her fragrant apple pie with Jaehaerys-like displeasure.

Jaron's lips thinned.

Lelouch shrugged and sipped at his Arbor gold. "I thought you ought to know. Who do you want to marry?"

"We are not friends," Rhaella said, "that I should share matters close to my heart so freely."

"Fair enough," Lelouch said, and paid her no more mind.

Was Lelouch trying to sabotage this match?! Jaron caught his son's eye and narrowed his. _Remember what I told you, boy_.

Lelouch sighed, and turned to Rhaella again. "Your brother seems fond of your lady-in-waiting. Joanna, wasn't it? My sister mentioned her in her letters. They were friends, I think."

"They were," Rhaella said, turning her head to where the heir apparent sat. He was laughing at something the Lannister girl had said. It should have been Alarra sitting there, making Aerys laugh, charming him with her wits and looks. "Do you think my brother will wed her?"

Lelouch seemed to consider it. "I suppose it's possible. The Lannisters are a great house of the realm, and she is close enough kin to the main branch. The Tyrells and Martells have no girls of the right age that will be available in a year's time."

"What's happening in a year's time?" she asked.

"Prince Aerys will marry, of course," Lelouch said. "We are at war, and the line of succession cannot be left in jeopardy at so crucial a moment as this. If the king is kind, he will let the crown prince choose from acceptable families."

"Acceptable families," Rhaella repeated with a frown. "You treat love so… so…"

"Love?" Lelouch said. "Love has nothing to do with marriage, Your Grace."

"My grandfather married for love," Rhaella said. "My father and mother married for love, as did my uncle."

"And the other chose not to wed for love too, as I recall," Lelouch said. "Still, what happened to your royal aunt?"

"She was wed to Lord Baratheon."

Lelouch nodded. "Do you think that was her choice?"

"She is happy."

"I do not doubt that she is, but that was not the question," Lelouch said. "Marriage has always been, and will always be for duty. That people can wed for love is a happy thing, but these are exceptions."

"Do you think I am not exceptional?" Rhaella said, arching a brow at him.

"If my sister spoke so kindly of you, you must be." Lelouch flashed her a charming smile.

Rhaella snorted and looked down at her golden plate. "I thought I might marry my dear Bonifer one day, before that day."

"A silly notion," Lelouch said. "A landed knight is no fit consort for a princess of the realm."

"Do you not wish to marry for love, Lord Lelouch?" she asked.

"I think love can be learned. I think love a choice."

"I suppose you would say that. You must've never felt as I did before."

He set down his cup and looked her in the eye. "That fleeting quickening of your pulse, that rapid rush of the heart? The fluttering warmth in your stomach, like butterflies on a summer day? That is not love. That is a lie the heart whispers to you, based on looks and little else. _Love_ born of something so fragile as beauty is doomed to die with time."

"And what," Rhaella said, "ought love be based on?"

"Sacrifice," Lelouch answered. "To love, to _truly love_ is to bear burden for another, to think of their good before your own. As a parent struggles for their children, so do husband and wife struggle for each other's sakes. To love is not to feel, but to act."


	12. Interlude - Who Are One

**Chapter 12: Interlude - Who Are One**

"Aerys, do you know what's going on?" Steffon asked as they allowed for a lull in their spar. "The ravens have been flying all week, and Grand Maester Pycelle looks a harried hare with all the running he's been doing."

"There have been summons as far west as Sarwyck," Tywin added, wiping away sweat from his forehead, "and lords great and small appear daily."

"We are at war," Aerys said, but it did not explain everything. The arrivals appeared with hosts too small to be assembled into an army, and with no baggage train fit for expedition. Petty lords and lordlings and hedge knights that would never dream of being asked for by the king had answered hastily. "Lords and ladies from Darry to Caswell to Swann have been called."

"That does not explain it," Tywin said. "The banners have been called already, and many march, though slowly. This is not that."

"Perhaps the king calls for an accounting?" Steffon said, before drenching himself with a bucket of water that sat in the training yard. A page scurried forward to refill it. "I too would be displeased if my bannermen answered with such lack of vigor."

_That is not it either, _Aerys thought, scrunching his brows. _As a servant cannot speak for their master, so petty lords cannot answer for their Lord Paramount_. "They have been welcome far too warmly, better than their stations merit," Aerys said.

"Perhaps the king has an announcement to make," Tywin said, wagging his brows. "A marriage, mayhaps?"

"I have not been told of anything if that is the case," Aerys said. Besides, how many fair maidens were at court to court? The beautiful Joanna was all that remained of high standing after Lelouch's sister had been shipped off. A pity that. Aerys had grown to like her bubbly nature, and to see it tarnished… the world was less for it.

"Fathers do not make a habit of telling their children things," Tywin said, a hint of bitterness in his tone.

Aerys knew his friend greatly misliked the Lord of Casterly Rock, though he did not know why. The few times he'd seen Lord Tytos proved him to be a loving and overly friendly figure.

"My father does," Aerys said absently. Long were the nights he was called to his father's solar to listen to the banter of old men, chief among them Steffon's. The better nights yielded the company of Gerold, whose deeds already filled two whole pages of the White Book, when he had been Lord Commander for just as many months! Aerys knew them by heart, better than he did his own history. The stories were songs to him.

"Shall we go again, Cousin?" Steffon asked, pointing his sword at Aerys.

"You'll lose," Aerys said with a grin. "Both of you will."

Tywin returned the smile with one of his own. "Will we?"

Steffon preferred his warhammer in a real fight, where the force of a blow mattered more than precision. Still, all that strength lended itself into a quickness with the blade; quick enough to match the lightnings which frequented his father's demesne. Most men would be caught off guard, but Aerys had fought his cousin countless times, and the first strike was always the same.

Aerys blocked with his own sword perfectly. A fraction of an inch off and it would've been fatal in battle.

"Steffon, you really ought to try something else one of these days," Tywin said, circling around Aerys.

"A single blow to end a single man, perfect in form," Steffon shot back, and pulled away as Tywin stepped forward.

Where Steffon was the looming storm, mighty and cold, Tywin was the fierce lion, a fire behind his blows. Anger mastered, given shape and form and sequence.

Tywin's first blow did not come quickly, but it did not come alone. Just as Aerys pushed away an overhead blow, it turned into another strike from a different angle. Again and again, Tywin struck, never letting up, never allowing an opening. Against a lesser man, he might score a dozen scratches before the fight was finished.

Aerys was not a lesser man. His guard did not break.

"Perhaps you ought to come at me together?" Aerys said with a grin. Together they would beat him, like Lelouch nearly did if he had been a bit _quicker_, a bit _stronger_.

_Where is he, I wonder_? Aerys thought, as he went on the offensive.

They had to bathe after their morning spar. Ser Lewyn had informed them that they were to attend court that day. Everyone would be there apparently.

"Whatever the king has planned, we'll find out soon enough," Steffon said.

Tywin nodded.

The first hint that things were not the same was the presence of the High Septon. The second was the Crystal Crown he wore. It sat uncomfortably on the man's brow, and was out of place against his plain clothes. The third was that Lelouch Velaryon stood beside him looking quite the figure in a new set of aquamarine lace robes, and when had that ever made for a boring day?

After a proclamation that winter would not be expected to last more than a few more months by Grandmaester Pycelle, Father whispered something to the Hand, who nodded. "His Grace," the Hand's voice boomed across the great hall, "permits His High Holiness audience."

His High Holiness stepped forward, sparing a shared look with Lelouch, before opening his mouth. "Your Grace, long ago when the Andals still lived on the hills of Andalos in the east," the High Septon said, "the Faith called for honorable men to take up the sword and cross the narrow sea. To bring the Faith with them, and see it flourish in new lands."

Aerys distinctly remembered entirely different reasons for the Andal migration.

"Not all men accepted," the High Septon said sadly, "and war broke out. Sacred Struggle, we called it, for it was work done for the gods and the toils were many and brutal. But we succeeded. That we stand here today, united under the light of the Seven who are One is testament to that."

_And what of the old gods of the North? Are they not gods of the realm as well?_

"It is well-known to the Faithful that in Essos, many are those who live under the shadow of the whip still. The maesters say it true: that there are three slaves to every one free man," he continued, and Aerys sat up. So there was more to this than a history lesson? "The children of slaves remain slaves, and know no life outside the collar. Whole generations have lived and died this way."

"I do not wish to paint with a wide brush," the High Septon said, "for surely there are some among them have an inkling of good. Some among the magisters and free men of decent stock and spirit, who treat their servants with dignity and friendship, but most cannot be counted to be so noble. How can they, so long as so damned a practice is prevalent among them?"

"Lord Lelouch," —and Aerys turned his eyes to the boy— "has shared words with me of how after having witnessed the greatness of Westeros, and the valor that our knights possess, the Magisters of Myr were awed. Upon his return from Bloodstone, pact was made to break every chain on the island! Only free men call Driftmark home now!

Lelouch's lips moved, but no sound came from them. It was as if he was repeating the words of the High Septon beneath his breath.

"If one lordling can see ten thousand souls free from so terrible a yoke," the High Septon said, "surely the greatest and highest of Westeros can match that a hundredfold?"

Nods of confused approval and murmurs filled the court. The pride of nobility saw them agree, even if they knew not what they agreed to. Then Aerys realized Lelouch was not repeating the words. He was reciting them, for they moved a fraction too fast to be heard and copied.

"Once more the faithful are called to arms across the narrow sea. Once more will we succeed," His High Holiness said. "I call on men, from the greatest lords to the humblest farmer to answer this call. Until the scourge of slavery is wiped clean from the Three Daughters, let us struggle and strive to make this world better. Let there be _Sacred Struggle_!"

"Ours is the fury!" the Hand barked out.

"Fury! Fury! Fury!" his stormlanders cheered.

"For the Seven! For the king!"

"Sacred Struggle!"

"Fire!" Aerys found himself shouting into the storm of words, swept up in the moment by rising from his seat. "Fire and blood!"

The king held up his hand and the room fell silent. "Since the time of King Jaehaerys the First, the Targaryen who sits on the Iron Throne has been Defender of the Faith. In this, as in all duties that relate to the defense of our subjects, do I say thus: Sacred Struggle is called, and House Targaryen _answers_! Will the lords of the realm follow me?"

"House Baratheon follows!" the Hand said.

"House Velaryon follows!"

More and more voices were added to the cacophony until Aerys could not make out the individual names anymore, save that many were with them.

That night, there were no old men waiting in his father's solar. Only a boy, and Aerys was pleased to see him.

"Lelouch Velaryon," Aerys said. "Your being here always makes life less dull."

"I am glad to be of service, Your Grace," Lelouch said.

"Aerys," Father said, "you have seen many happenings at court as of late. I would hear your thoughts on what has come to pass."

Aerys glanced at Lelouch, then began. "We are at war with the Blackfyre Pretenders who have hid themselves in Essos, but our lords are slow to answer your call."

"And you disapprove of their delay," Father said.

"Of course I do!" Aerys said. "You are the king, and they are your lords. Therefore, they must obey."

"Must they?" Father said, setting aside his crown. "What ought to be done then about these lords?"

"Threaten them with execution," Aerys said easily. "That ought to put some fire in their bellies."

Father frowned. "And you would carry out such threats? For no crime but tardiness? Do you suppose the lords of the realm will take kindly to that."

"I suppose not," Aerys said. "But there is no need to see the threat through. Fear will make the men march faster."

"And what happens," Father said, "to the first man that does not change after threat is given? You say you will not see it through."

"Nothing," Aerys admitted, and it sounded like defeat.

"Nothing? Then how will the other lords who see this act?"

"They would not change, and it would be much the same as before."

"Worse than that," Father said. "They will see us weak. Give no order men will not follow and threaten no punishment you will not see through."

"Yes, Father," Aerys said.

Father sighed. "You are young yet. There will be time for you to learn the subtleties of kingship. I have called Lelouch here to explain his schemes, that you might learn from them."

"His schemes?" Aerys asked, curious eyes turning towards the boy. That explained how Lelouch knew the High Septon's words before the man did himself!

"Yes, Your Grace. The lords of the realm acted slowly for they saw little challenge in the Blackfyres. They needed motivation," Lelouch said. "All wars are fought for three things in the end: gold, gods and glory. I just made sure they were made aware of the true state of things."

"Then His High Holiness' words about Sacred Struggle…"

"All my idea," Lelouch admitted with a small smile.

Aerys almost snorted. "So there are truly no more slaves on Driftmark?" _What a farce the Sacred Struggle might look if men knew it was Lelouch's idea all along._

Lelouch's grin grew. "They are as free as they are in Pentos," Lelouch said and Aerys knew there were no slaves in Pentos left, not after the Braavosi had humbled them so.

Lelouch spoke long into the night, and the stories were songs to him.

**-ZeroRequiem-**

Gerold Hightower did not like being away from the king. It was not that he did not trust his brothers of the white cloak… but he did not trust his brothers of the white cloak. Among them, only Ser Harlan Grandison had stood at his side under Ser Duncan the Tall. The rest of them were newly sworn, and did not understand the weight of their vows.

Yet, the king had ordered him away, and he had no choice but to obey.

It was poor luck that of all the men his sword now guarded, it had to be Ormund Baratheon, the Lord Hand.

"You mislike me," Baratheon said as a faint roar sounded in the distance. Their ship lurched.

"I do not know you well enough to mislike you," Gerold said. "You are new to me, and a stranger in truth."

"Yet we both serve under the same king," Baratheon said. "For all that you do not agree with my counsel, I would not see harm come to my good-brother and his family. Not if it can be helped."

"You did not want this war."

"I did not," Baratheon said with a nod. "Wars are dangerous and cause hardship. Wars have killed kings and princes, and we have precious few of those left."

"We are at war all the same, whether you like it or not," Gerold said.

"I do not like it," Baratheon said, "but I serve the king in this faithfully, as I do in all matters. If war must be pursued to the far corners of Essos, certain assurances need be made to the Sea Lord."

Gerold scrunched his brows. "What business is it of Braavos if we make war on a Blackfyre?"

"It becomes their business when we step foot on their side of the Narrow Sea," Baratheon said.

"They do not hold dominion over Myr, Lys, or Tyrosh." As far as Gerold knew, Pentos was as far south as Braavos cared to meddle with.

"They do not," Baratheon agreed, "but they will worry all the same, and if left alone long enough, the golds might seize power from the greys."

The greys, Gerold knew, were those men who clung to the ideals of Braavos' founding. They'd taken their name after the same grey stones that was the foundation of the Free City. Let no man be put under the yoke of the collar and whip. The golds on the other hand were the rich merchant class that thrived on trade. Trade with Volantis and the other cities had brought them much wealth, and war disrupted such things.

"So we are here to treat with merchants then?" Gerold asked, unable to keep the scorn from his tone.

"Merchants that control the greatest fleet in the known world, yes. If Braavos wanted, they could match all the ships of Westeros in a few years, and they've had centuries to build up their strength at sea."

"The greys despise slavery as much as we do," Gerold said. "Would it not be in their interest to see us succeed?"

"Not all men think so kindly of others," Baratheon said. "They will see our armies and ships and lords, and think to themselves, 'What if they stay?' Best to cut out such poison before it can grow roots. Some words of platitude today will spare us grief tomorrow."

"And if they do not believe you? Will that be an end to the war?"

"No. You know as well as I do the king cannot back down now, after having made such proclamations. His plan has worked, and the Sacred Struggle spurs many hosts towards King's Landing. I suspect by the time we return, the invasion will be underway," Baratheon said. "But if we cannot convince the Sea Lord of our good intentions, we will have to offer more than words."

**-ZeroRequiem-**

Is it better to be loved or feared? For a man even a mother names monstruous, it is no choice at all.

Maelys Blackfyre, First of His Name, sat beneath the shade cast by the Tree of Crowns. Here he had made pact with eight others to raise each other to kingship. Not all at one time, not all made widely known, but sacred made all the same. Only seven of them assembled now, the first time some of these men (and woman) had met.

It was not by accident, for what do sellswords, sellsails, and coin counters all lack?

A spine. The willingness to make the hard choices. Not the evil choices, for inflicting rape and war and pillage on a village was easy. Not the complicated choices, for there was difficulty in carrying out simple solutions and seeing them through. The hardest choices were the necessary actions one did not wish to commit, whether due to sentiment or morality or fear in all its forms. Yet, did these things make action any less necessary?

Maelys had loved his cousin Daemon, who was captain-general of the Golden Company before him. How could he not when they were brothers in all but name, the last sons of Blackfyre. They had grown up together, trained together, bled together. If any man claimed to have known Daemon better, Maelys would name them a liar.

They were meant to be king and general. Daemon, handsome Daemon, would charm and beguile men to their cause. Maelys to show traitors fire and blood.

Maelys had loved his cousin Daemon, so of course it had hurt to put his fist through Steel, his beautiful chestnut destrier. Of course it had _hurt_ to twist Daemon's neck with his own hands. He did not want to do it, to become kingslayer and kinslayer in deed after men had whispered the latter about him all his life. Was it his fault he had grown a misshapen neck that looked like the face of his stillborn twin?

But it was necessary.

Being born with two faces did not afford Maelys the luxury of self-deception. Daemon's actions were treason.

"_How can your own king commit treason?_"

Thirty years ago, Maelys saw their chance to take back the Iron Throne. The fiercest warriors of Westeros led by their Storm King had risen in revolt. The Tyrells and Tullys, closest and most loyal to the Targaryens, would not rise to their defense after being spited so. The Redwyne Fleet, second to none in size, would not sail. Aegon Targaryen's children were fools to spite the Lords Paramount of the Seven Kingdoms for love of all things.

The Greyjoys were a capricious lot, and cared little for the affairs of "greenlanders". They might even see war a welcome chance to plunder any weakened garrisons. Who was left to oppose them?

The North would take too long to gather their scattered peoples to march south. Dorne could be neutralized with a promise of the Lord Paramountcy to the Yronwoods, who dominated the Boneway. Only the Arryns and the Lannisters would be left, along with what pitiful crownland levies could be raised. There was no better chance to strike, and Daemon squandered it by advising their uncle to wait. Six years later their uncle died in the Fourth Defeat.

"_By betraying the cause of Bittersteel and our grandfather_."

An opportunity like that came once in a lifetime, but no matter. Maelys had struggled all his life, while to Daemon everything was given. Struggle was familiar. Struggle burned away weakness. This struggle would see whether he was a worthy successor to the Blackfyre name.

What do sellswords, sellsails, and coin counters all lack?

Maelys turned his eyes to the last of the arrivals, Liomond Lashare. _Loyalty_. These men had to be bribed and cajoled to strike pact with him, but Maelys knew words were wind. Lords great and small had sworn themselves to the Blackfyre cause, and those same lords did nothing while his uncle fought at the Battle of Wendwater Bridge. Those same lords doomed them to the Fourth Defeat.

"Samarro Saan is dead," Maelys said, turning his neck so that his second face landed on Alequo Adarys.

Silvertongue winced, and did not move his tongue.

"Then I s'pose it good I left that fool siege of Lys," Old Mother said, stabbing her cane into the soft soil beneath. "A waste of men and ships to take it now with no king to claim it."

Xhobar Quoqua, in his many-colored feathers, bobbed his ebon head. "Old Mother speaks truth. The walls of Lys are formidable, and not worth the cost to take despite the many practitioners of the noble art behind it."

"You mean the whores?" Derrick Fossoway asked.

"Yes, the priestesses," Xhobar said, nodding vigorously.

The Ebon Prince came from the Sweet Lotus Vale on the Summer Island of Jhala. They were a strange people who revered whores and saw sex as a holy act. But their customs Maelys had turned to his advantage, letting him pair up Xhobar with Old Mother. In their lands, they respected the elderly and women. Any other of his band would likely wound up dead by refusing to listen to her counsel, or picking a fight they shouldn't.

"It was the right choice in retrospect," Maelys said. "Still, I would have an explanation from you Adarys. You had a hundred and ninety ships, several thousand men, and even five hundred sons of the Golden Company." That had been a mistake too, Maelys knew. The Golden Company was unlike any other for it fought best together. In his haste to secure the Stepstones, he'd allowed himself to be convinced to send a detachment. "Taking the haven of some disorganized pirates should have been child's play with Old Mother's friends to hold the port."

"It was not I who led the fleet!" Adarys said. "That dog Saan held command, not me. I was in Tyrosh, ruling."

"Saan is dead," Maelys said. "The only men in command left report to the Archon of Tyrosh which just so happens to be you. _Death_ does not take with it the need for accounting."

"The defeat was not mine."

"The defeat belongs to _your_ men, whom _you_ are responsible for," Spotted Tom said. "Do you want to rule, or do you want to shift blame?"

Adarys deflated. "Bloodstone was not disorganized, I am told. When the fleet arrived, some twenty ships blocked the Blood Straits. My admiral thought to link up with the southern fleet before landing, but when the ships were rammed they burned green."

"_Wildfire_," Fossoway spat. "Westeros sent men."

"Ships too!" Adarys said. "Flags of sun and crescent moon, and trees, and the seahorse were seen."

Maelys shared a knowing look with Lashare. _Velaryon ships_. "That does not explain why you left my men on that island without support. You had some sixty ships left and their marines, did you not? The survivors could have been saved; their lines did not break."

"The admiral thought it best. A storm was fast approaching, and the fire burned low. Either the winds would drive my ships into the shores of Serpentholm or right into the Sunsetlander fleet."

"The seahorse defies us again," Xhobar said. "They burned Myr too if I recall."

"Aye," Old Mother said, cracking a grin. "Took balls, that."

That left the pirate as their only competent commander at sea. Maelys considered himself decent, but he did not have a lifetime of experience fighting tide while keeping traitors in line. That made Old Mother invaluable, and she was smart enough to know it too. Her ambitions would extend beyond the Stepstones now. Perhaps she could be tempted if Lys was added to her domain?

"I regret that the construction of Myr's ports go slowly," Lashare said. "I would send men to aid you, truly, but without the means of transport…"

Being born with two faces did not afford Maelys the luxury of self-deception. Lashare's actions were treason, but it could not be proven. The Lord of Battles had secured his prize already, and had no need to aid the rest of them. Had Nine Eyes still lived and commanded the loyalty of his Jolly Fellows, there would be threat of force to keep the Lashare compliant.

But Maelys was not without options.

"Tyrosh's fleet can reach you," Spotted Tom said.

Lashare tilted his head. "I thought their fleet was broken?"

"They have trade ships by the hundreds, and those carry men all the same as a galley does," Spotted Tom said.

Xhobar and Old Mother rolled their eyes. "This is why you are a sell_sword,_ not a sellsail," Xhobar said. "Your men will count for nothing but kraken food if your ship is rammed and sunk."

Maelys thought that preferrable. After Nine Eyes' _capture_, Lashare had bound the Jolly Fellows to his cause, bringing his strength to eight thousand foot. Dangerously close to Maelys' own forces, and large enough they could not be intimidated by force alone with walls to hide behind. The only reason Lashare bothered with this pretense was that the Disputed Lands were still firmly controlled by the Golden Company. At a word, he could starve the city of eight hundred thousand.

"A ship was spotted sailing from King's Landing to Braavos bearing the stag," Old Mother said. "The king's coxswain is up to something, seeking more gold maybe."

"The Hand of the King," Fossoway corrected. "Whatever it is, it may have something to do with word from Westeros. The High Septon has declared Sacred Struggle."

"On us?" Spotted Tom asked with a frown.

"On the Free Cities of Lyr, Mys, and Tyrosh," Fossoway said. "A war to abolish slavery, or so they say."

"But we hold two of the three, and those same men who will fight us, fight to free the slaves," Adarys said.

"An excuse for the king to wage war on us. Do not fool yourselves for a minute, even if we broke every chain in Essos, they would still come for us." Maelys swept his eyes from side to side, locking eyes with each in turn. "They would still come for _all_ of us. When the dust settles, either we will stand, or they will."

If they feared for their lives and their prizes, they would commit to his cause. They had to see Westeros as a threat to be eliminated, or secured. _Perhaps if they cannot be beaten at sea, Westeros' strength can be spent here in the lands we know. _

"It is suicide to stand against them," Old Mother said. "Westeros can call on half a million men. We could win all the battles we want and they'd _drown _us in their blood."

All together, they had some sixty-five thousand men to call on, but that number was deceptive. Besides the Golden Company, Fossoway's cavalry, and Spotted Tom's infantry, Maelys could not rely on the others wholly. Lashare would keep his eight thousand close to home. The Myrish levies would obey him as well, some six thousand men if given weeks to arm themselves and gather.

Old Mother would quickly fold Saan's remnants into her own fleet, but they were pirates. They liked their battles one-sided and quick.

Xhobar's three thousand were well-trained, with many wielding goldenheart bows, and the ten thousand Tyroshi marines made for better fodder than the pirates at least.

"We have friends of our own as well," Maelys said.

The six of them looked at him.

"When Braavos acts, Volantis reacts," he said. "And to make this war a holy matter will spur the Slaver Cities into action. Gold, at least, to gather sellswords, if not Unsullied and sword slaves to bolster us. They will not like more cities of freed slaves to spring up so close to them. It might give people ideas."

"You cannot be serious," Lashare said. "Saan himself raided Volantene waters not a year ago. He did such a good job pissing them off they elected the Tigers back to power. Now they bay for blood."

"Saan is dead," Maelys replied. "Now that bloodlust can be channeled towards more productive ends. It is most fortuitous. Adarys?"

Silvertongue looked startled.

"You will atone for the failure at Bloodstone. Go to Volantis, reach out to the Wise Masters, the Good Masters, and the Great Masters. Use that silver tongue of yours to sway them to our cause."

"But in my absence, Tyrosh—"

"—will be fine," Maelys said, and narrows his eyes. _But if you fail, well, perhaps it will be less fine._

Adarys swallowed. "Of course."

Maelys looked to the west and a crisp spring breeze blew. _Let them come with their many great nobles and hosts. I will end them in a moment, a twinkling._

_Utterly._


	13. High

**Chapter 13: High**

A new set of lords and ladies feasted at the high table as had become custom this past sennight. Tonight, the king toasted with Lords Deklan Darklyn, Dylar Wendwater, the Tully brothers, Steffon Baratheon, and the highborn women accompanying them.

His cousin Kiren was among their number, her dress a riot of color that drew eyes to wherever her hands went. The body was Velaryon aquamarine with cuffs of red or green at either hand.

_'A true lady makes fashion, and lets others follow,' _Aunt Eunice liked to say. Kiren must have taken those words to heart in the eleven months she'd been away from Driftmark.

Eleven months since Lelouch put the idea in her head to leave home for their Wendwater kin, to leave her father. That Adamm Velaryon was now in the clutches of their enemies… did she hate him for it? _If she did, is she not in the right twice over? _Lelouch thought, pushing away his plate. He had conspired to part her from her father, then doomed Uncle Adamm's attack on the port of Myr when together they might have succeeded.

Would Kiren forgive him if she never saw her father again? So quick and unexpected was their parting that not even an abrupt farewell had passed between father and daughter.

_There had been no need at the time, I thought. She could be in Driftmark in days if she wished it. _His stomach churned at the thought. _What a great fool I was, so certain that my plan could not go awry. _

"Lord Baratheon left for Braavos this morning," Tywin said beside him. The Lannister served himself a slice of venison paired with bayleaf, marjoram, and a sauce of crushed berries. "That's why Steffon is sitting with the king instead of with us."

It was just as well. Baratheon had never quite forgiven Lelouch for his appalling treatment of Princess Rhaella. "You'll be sitting up there soon enough. I've heard the westerland host is not far now," Lelouch said, tearing his eyes from Kiren.

"Two days away, by my reckoning," Tywin said. "My uncle Jason leads a thousand knight and ten times that in men-at-arms."

"He is Lady Joanna's father, isn't he?" Lelouch asked, eyes going to the girl seated across the hall. Joanna Lannister was beautiful in a classically westerland sense, with features as rich as their land: emerald eyes, golden hair, and alabaster skin. Small wonder Aerys favored her so.

"Yes. A shame the company coming with him though." Tywin scowled. "Roger Reyne, Reynard Reyne, Emmon Frey—"

"A Frey?"

"My good-brother," he spat. "A dullard foisted upon my sister when she was but seven namedays old."

Lelouch frowned, turning to Tywin. "Truly? At so young an age?" Betrothals so young were not unheard of, but certainly uncommon.

"She is wedded, but not yet bedded, though that will change soon enough after this war is done with."

"It _is _a war. People die, and I do not expect a man with an epithet like 'Monstruous' to care for ransom," Lelouch mused.

Tywin raised his golden chalice high. "May the Seven be so merciful."

Lelouch clinked his glass against Tywin's with his good hand, and they drank deep. The blood red Dornish strongwine was not sweet enough to cover the bitterness on his tongue.

He studied the high table once more. Lord Darklyn seemed to be thanking the king; his lord father was frowning. A charter for Duskendale would threaten the trade passing through Driftmark, while command of the crownland levies was an honor his father had been trying to secure for Lord Wendwater on the condition that Lelouch might be given a small command.

Some eighteen thousand men now camped outside King's Landing, drawn from a hundred lords of the crownlands, stormlands, and riverlands. Lelouch's single victory, no matter how glorious, was not likely to win him more swords beyond those already sworn to Driftmark.

Had Lord Dylar been present for the Battle of Seafyre, credit could be passed to him and he might now have the acclaim to direct the crownland levies in the king's stead. It was not to be though. The Wendwater levies could not be counted among the largest in the crownlands, and numbers mattered greatly in the cold political calculus of war.

Among the coalition Lelouch had used to smash his enemies at Bloodstone, the Lord of Waterflow Keep offered but six hundred men—fewer than even the Myrish auxiliaries. That he sent any men was generous of him in truth, for Uncle Adamm's indiscretions were indiscrete. Perhaps Lord Dylar had not wished others to think marriage with his kin to be worthless, though some might forgive him that for the dishonor done to Aunt Eunice.

Whatever Lord Dylar's reasons mattered for naught now. Dark wings had flown from King's Landing calling the banners to war, and Velaryon retribution was subsumed into the larger struggles of royalty and religion.

"Good evening, Lord Tywin, Lord Lelouch," came a husky voice.

"How fares you this night, Princess Myriah," Tywin answered the Martell heiress.

She looked quite fetching for a woman who'd bore three children. Her smooth, olive skin was bare at her shoulders, uncovered by her spring green dress—a thing of fine silk from the far east. It served to heighten the exotic air about her. Had she not been a daughter of Dorne such attire might cause scandal rather than merely raising brows.

"It would be much improved after a dance." Princess Myriah smiled, eyes darting towards Lelouch even as her hand extended to Tywin.

"I would be honored, Princess," Tywin said, leading her towards Aerys and his cousin on the floor. Princess Myriah was sensual grace in motion, spinning to the sound of flute and pipes and harp that soon the attention of every man in the hall was on her.

Lady Joanna dropped into the now empty seat beside Lelouch, replacing his golden-haired companion too quickly to not be planned. "I haven't seen much of you since you arrived, Lord Lelouch. I was sadly mistaken that a war hero, on the eve of rebellion, does not in fact spend his days at the training yards."

Lelouch held up his hand. "Ser Darry has exiled me from his yard until my wound is better healed."

"Ah, the dashing hero's injury from his heroic showdown against Maelys the Monstruous." There was a quirk to her smile. "Does it hurt much?"

"Considerably more after Bloodstone. Grandmaester Pycelle said I ought not use my hand for at least another month or risk aggravating my injury."

Her eyes considered him. "What is it you get up to then? Surely there must be more to Lelouch Velaryon's day than seeking Princess Rhaella's hand."

"I'm sorry to disappoint," Lelouch said. "Why is it you're here?"

She pouted. "Do you dislike my company? Or perhaps…" She put a finger to the side of her lip. "Your cousin Donnall tells me you've a horse named _Seamoke_. Do you prefer _riding_?"

Lelouch blinked. The only Seasmoke with stories to speak of was a dragon his great grandfather's great grandfather had ridden before the Dance. According to Mushroom's _Testimony_, Laenor sought the company of handsome men, enjoyed them more than was appropriate. Was she implying what he thought she was? "I am better with a bow and a target to hit, but best with a book in hand."

"Ah, but the stories I've heard about Seasmoke, and you do spend an awful lot of time with Prince Aerys. Some might say you enjoy his presence more than Princess Rhaella's," she said, wearing a mask of innocence. "He's handsome enough I suppose."

"Fear not, I shan't snatch His Grace from your claws," Lelouch drawled.

Joanna feigned surprise well. "Whatever do you mean?"

"I've no designs on Aerys, or replacing my sister at court," he continued.

Her face fell. "I never got a chance to see Alarra again after…" she said. "Lord Jaron shipped her back to Driftmark so quickly."

"He felt it best for her to be among kin." Lelouch's throat felt dry and heavy.

She seemed to hesitate. "Do you think Alarra would like it if I wrote to her?"

Lelouch glanced at Kiren being twirled and brought close to Aerys' chest. "I believe she'd welcome it. I imagine it feels lonely on our island nowadays, with all of us away from home." Lelouch shifted guiltily. "If you'd like, I could deliver a letter for you. I mean to return to Driftmark before the campaign begins."

"When might that be?" Joanna asked.

"With luck, we will begin landing in Essos in a month's time."

Joanna frowned. "The Northern host is furthest from us, and Tywin says even they will be here within the fortnight."

"The king's health keeps him from joining the campaign, and that leaves the Hand as the only man whom the Lords Paramount will take orders from." His cup of Dornish sweetened with each sip. "A ship to and from Braavos will take the better part of three weeks. Without a unifying commander, we will not be a great army, but a coalition of smaller ones."

"Could Prince Aerys not lead?" Joanna asked.

"If he had a few more years, or been in any battles to speak of, but His Grace is barely a man grown," Lelouch said. Even had the king commanded it, the lords would test Aerys at every turn. "King Jaehaerys is wise enough not to gamble with his throne at stake."

'_Give no order men will not follow.'_

Joanna spread her fan wide open with a sharp flick of her wrist. "You are no older than Aerys, yet His Grace gave you command for the Battle of Seafyre."

"His Grace let me command, he did not give me command," Lelouch corrected.

"Is there a distinction?" Joanna asked.

"Two important ones. The men I led already had good reason to follow me after I delivered them from defeat at Myr. The risk too was not so great. Had I failed or fallen at Bloodstone, the cause of House Targaryen would not be so deeply wounded. But should either fate befall Prince Aerys, the damage it would do could spell catastrophe."

Joanna ceased her fanning. "Would it not be safer for him to stay in King's Landing then? Why must he insist on joining the army."

"Because he is, as you supposed, handsome enough," Lelouch said.

She glared.

"I do not mock." He showed her his palms. "Aerys is useful as a figure to rally the lords behind, a show of who it is they fight for. But a figure to rally behind is not the same as a man men trust with campaign. Lord Baratheon and Prince Aerys each have their role to play."

"I've asked knights, maesters, and septons these same questions, and none of them could give me an answer half as well-thought as yours," Joanna said. "I see why Aerys thinks so highly of you."

"I'm touched to hear such kind words about myself."

"This has been delightful. We ought to speak more often, my lord," Joanna said as Aerys approached with Kiren on his arm. "Give your sister my best?"

"I will, my lady," Lelouch said.

Aerys nodded to him as he seated Kiren. "Joanna, might you honor me with a dance?" he asked.

"Of course, Prince Aerys," Joanna said with a smile, letting Aerys pull her to her feet. The new tune the musicians played had a faster rhythm to it, and introduced both drum and lyre to its melody.

Lelouch and Kiren watched the furor of sound and steps around them in silence. His throat was parched and he reached for the pitcher of wine, pausing as Kiren's hand rested on top of his.

"You're injured," she chided, pouring for him. "You've been avoiding me since I arrived. Have you not missed me at all?"

He downed half his cup in a single gulp. "I didn't know what to say," Lelouch said honestly.

"A 'hello' would have been nice," Kiren said.

"Your father—"

"I know," Kiren said with a soft smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "Haven't I told you before that you're broody enough for two people?"

"Many times," Lelouch said. "I'm sorry. I couldn't save him. If I had acted different, had I been better—"

She clutched his arm, cutting off his words. "What ifs and should haves, there's no sense to that sort of talk. Do you think we'll win? Tell me that instead."

Lelouch emptied his cup and stared into it. "We will not lose," he said after a moment. "To seize the Iron Throne, Blackfyre must control the seas to have a chance at landing unopposed, but the numbers do not favor him especially with the failure to take Lys."

The ships between Greyjoy and Redwyne alone was nearly enough to match the Band of Nine's remaining strength at sea. Add to that the Royal Fleet, Driftmark, the Myrish exiles, and the lesser fleets at Lannisport, Gulltown, White Harbor, Oldtown, and Sunspear... "At full muster, we would have twice the Band of Nine's ships and ten times their swords."

"If the situation is as poor as you say for Maelys, then why has he chosen to rebel now?"

"Blackfyre knows we will seek him out in Essos. His men are well-armed, and well-trained. He has two Free Cities backing him, and he will be fighting on land he knows. And our full might cannot be brought against him across the Narrow Sea, not right away. He will offer battle, and try to pick us apart piecemeal."

"What of Father?" Kiren asked.

"As best as we know, still imprisoned in Myr by Lashare," Lelouch said. "I'll do whatever it takes to bring Uncle Adamm back."

Kiren's nails dug into his arm. "Swear it. Swear there will be no peace until this insult is answered in full."

"May the Stranger deal with me ever so severely if I leave this work half-done," Lelouch vowed. "There will be no peace between me and those who wronged our family."

**-ZeroRequiem-**

With the westerland lords and knights of the Vale came an equal number of wagons and carriages, far too many to be carrying only provisions for campaign. Daughters, sisters, nieces, and mothers flooded the Red Keep. King Jaehaerys welcomed the blushing maidens and their minders, one and all; armed with glitter and bodice and smiles that would cut into hearts deeper than any castle-forged steel.

It was only to be expected with Aerys still unspoken for despite Joanna's best efforts. For one of their blood to bear the next crown prince would be the great prize of the game, but there were many other favorable matches to be had. An assembly of heirs to great houses and future lords such as this came once in a lifetime.

War brought opportunity to lords and ladies both.

Lelouch saw little of Rhaella in the following days as a swarm of suitors sought her out. Most dangerous to their ambitions, his father shared, were Arryn, Reyne, and Yronwood.

"Not Tywin?" Joanna asked.

"Tywin was King Aegon's cupbearer for two years, and a squire for four. Yet in months Ser Bonifer had earned a better claim to Her Grace's affections," Lelouch said to Joanna as they navigated the muddy trails of the tent city outside King's Landing. "One can only conclude Tywin has no interest in pursuing Princess Rhaella's hand." _Or that she does not favor him. _

She smirked. "I thought love has nothing to do with marriage?"

"Princess Rhaella does not share my philosophy," Lelouch said.

"A match might still be arranged if the king wishes it," Joanna said, tucking a strand of gold behind her ear.

"The king is wise, so I do not think it likely."

Joanna narrowed her eyes. "Is the heir of Casterly Rock and the westerlands not worthy of Rhaella's hand?"

"He is, but only one match is needed to bring the westerlands into the fold," Lelouch said evenly, staying her wrath. "When the dust settles, Prince Aerys will choose you to be his queen."

She looked away quickly. "Has His Grace mentioned something to you?"

"No," he admitted, grinning as she turned to glare at him, still flushed, "but I do have eyes and ears, same as anyone else. You are close kin to his good friend Tywin, which by itself would be enough. That Aerys favors you greatly on your own merits? Jayne Bracken might be a beauty, and Arwen Arryn Lord Jon's niece, but how can either of them compare to you?"

"There are other women—"

Faint shouts could be heard in the distance. A brawl, no doubt, given the number of fighting men crammed into this sliver of land outside King's Landing. "Let us not insult your or mine wits with the notion that the other women might be more than passing fancy."

"I've learned humility is a look which suits me," Joanna said smugly, placing a hand on her hip.

Lelouch snorted. "False humility."

"No less true than anything said in this city."

The ladies with Princess Rhaella tittered some feet ahead of them. "My father discounts Oswell Whent too early, I think," Lelouch said, nodding at the knight distinguished by his helmet with the black bat emblazoned.

"The second son of Lord Whent?" Joanna asked. "He is not unpleasant to look at, but he's no Aerys. What is it you see in him?"

"The man's wicked with a sword. He faced two knights in a spar this morning and won. I would not enjoy being his enemy."

Joanna wagged her brows suggestively. "My lord! Are you suggesting Princess Rhaella will let him practice his swordplay on her? That it might win her over?"

"You can do better than that," Lelouch said, wrinkling his nose. Their party was brought to a halt by a broken down wagon blocking the path. "This camp is a mess. I dread to think of its state when Lord Tyrell arrives."

"He should be here soon, shouldn't he?" Joanna said, a look of worry crossing her face.

"In six days along with the Dornish too," Lelouch answered. "Fret not, my lady. I've heard no whispers of the Maiden made flesh in any Dornishwoman or Reach daughter, nor spotted any great beauties so far that eclipse your own."

"Maelys Blackfyre has a merchant they call the Silvertongue, but if they knew of you, Lord Lelouch, they'd bestow on you the sobriquet instead." There was a glint in her eye. "Take care that others do not mistake our friendship for courtship."

"And displease my father? I wouldn't dream of it."

The blockage was finally dealt with by a crew of men with Marbrand colors. They reached Lord Jason's tent not long after. It was a rich and impractical affair with its tapestries and potteries more at home in a lordly castle. Should this host fall into disarray, it would be first pickings for looters. Why Joanna's father thought to bring a table of heavy oak and several suits of armor for display was beyond him.

It made for a fine place for the lords to meet though, and explained why Lord Greyjoy and his own father sat with Lord Jason. No doubt discussing the details of the upcoming campaign, and where the armies might land in Essos.

Joanna left his side to embrace Lord Jason after Princess Rhaella's extensive entourage had paid their courtesies.

Two girls peeled themselves from Rhaella to stand at either side of Lelouch. Cynthea Waynwood and Mya Royce if he recalled correctly. Eyes shifting between the girls, Lelouch said, "My ladies, is there something I can do for you?"

They giggled.

"We've heard _so _much about you, Lord Velaryon," Cynthea said, flitting her lashes.

"The hero of Seafyre," Mya followed up, entwining her arm with his. Lelouch was keenly aware that the back of his hand was brushing against her chest, and that the girl did not seem to mind. "You simply must tell us all about it."

"Lelouch."

He jerked his head away. "Father?"

"Outside. Now." Father stormed out the tent, his face a tight mask. He continued to walk until they were some distance from Lord Jason's tent.

This was going to be one of _those_ conversations. "What's this about?" Lelouch asked.

"You will not stick your cock in any of these women, understand?" Father hissed. "They are not foreign harlots like that merchant's daughter or the green-haired wench. I will not suffer you to get a highborn lady with child, and be roped into marriage!"

"Omorfia and Cici are not whores, nor have I 'stuck my cock' in either of them," Lelouch said.

Father snorted. "Of course they aren't. You just sneak off at godsforsaken hours to see them."

"I was discreet."

"Not discreet enough if I can figure out you've been going to Donnall's paid room at the inn along the Hook," Father said. "The boy takes after my brother after all."

_You only know because none of my men would dare defy you,_ Lelouch thought. "They're not _whores_," Lelouch repeated with force. "Omorfia is Magister Zoutos' granddaughter and heir, while Cic—"

"—is a freed slave you've befriended. Yes, yes, so you've said before. Do you think because you've freed her, fed her, and housed her that she now let's you fuck her out of affection?"

This was getting him nowhere. "I haven't forgotten your wishes concerning Princess Rhaella."

"It's not your memory I worry about, but whether you intend to see my instructions through."

Lelouch frowned. "This is the first day since I arrived that I have not spent an hour besides Rhaella! Surely you can't fault me for that with how many men hang about her?"

Father gave him an exasperated look. "Is this how I raised you? To give up at the first sign of difficulty?"

"I have not given up," Lelouch shot back. "There is a method to my madness. Rhaella will tire of the others when she learns they are all the same. Hanging about her like some puppy will serve naught but paint me in the same light."

"If she doesn't tire of them?"

"Then I will have gambled and lost," Lelouch said.

"Yes and in the meantime you will court Lady Joanna. Or are Vale maidens more to your liking?" Father looked to the heavens. "Mother be merciful. Stick some teats in front of my son and all sense deserts him!"

"Lady Joanna is favored by the Crown Prince."

"Oh? Remember that do you? Good," Father said.

Lelouch crossed his arms. "We're just friends. Will you fault me for seeking better relations with House Lannister on the eve of war?"

"Just friends, ha! My own son thinks me a fool," Father said, leaning on his cane. "What of those Vale girls then? Have you any idea who they are?"

"Cynthea Waynwood and Mya Royce," Lelouch answered.

"Who is Lord Arryn's wife?"

"Jeyne Royce." The pieces clicked in Lelouch's head. "And Ronnel Arryn's good-brother is a Waynwood. You think them here to distract me, so that Ronnel Arryn might win Rhaella's hand."

"Perhaps there is hope for you after all," Jaron said. "I do not think it, I know it! Tread carefully, lest you take the future of our house down with you."

Lelouch's eyes narrowed into slits. "It would hardly matter how careful I tread. I am, after all, just a _silly _boy all sense deserts when confronted with a pair of teats."

"If the urge strikes you, go sleep with your Essosi whores then, or pay a woman on the Street of Silk. I care not," Father said.

That sounded like an excuse to go meet Cici whenever he felt like it.

"I understand," he said bitterly.

**-ZeroRequiem-**

The sole inn along the curving road between the Red Keep and Fishmonger's Square named Kepmann's Inn was better known as the Bend. The crescent of hardwood, white rock, and marble was built in fits and starts throughout its life. Its oldest section was four stories tall with turrets, a chimney, and annexes on either side inching closer towards the thoroughfare.

Lelouch entered the common room to warmth, and the heady smell of wine and herbs. Tomas Liddle stood by the counter closest to the kitchen door where a slow-roasted pig, skin crisp and slick with grease, was laid out.

"Liddle!" the mob of knights and killers chanted as the innkeep carved, banging their tankards to some unheard beat. "Liddle!"

It was of no difficulty spotting Cici's green hair or Omorfia's tangle of dark locks among this crowd, and Donnall was never far from them.

"Lelouch!" Donnall said, standing as he spotted his cousin. "You're earlier than usual. We were just about to have dinner. Is something wrong?"

"We ought to take our plates to the room. There's no privacy to be had here," Cici said.

They crossed the room to a flight of stairs, then went down the hall of the second floor. They entered and Donnall dropped the wood piece into the latch, barring the door.

Omorfia sat on the featherbed, crossing one unblemished leg over the other as she balanced a plate on her knee. "Have you eaten? If you're _hungry_" —she licked her lips— "I could share my plate with you."

Lelouch turned to Cici. "I knew I shouldn't have left her with you here."

"We were speaking with Khamaya, a madame on the Street of Silk, earlier today," Cici said. "She might have picked up a trick or two."

Omorfia grinned, shifting in her lace dress. "What can I say? I'm a quick study."

"What business did you have there?" Lelouch asked.

"Market research," Omorfia said before chewing on a piece of meat. "Your cousin seemed to enjoy it."

Donnall coughed violently, chugging down his cup of wine.

"Are you opening a brothel?" Lelouch asked.

"Nothing so crass," Omorfia said. "I'm Myrish, not Lyseni."

He did not miss the look shared between the Myrish heiress and the witch even as Donnall protested his purity. "You're opening a pizza shop."

"The first of many," Cici said, stretching her arms wide. "This world shall come to love it, if I have to uplift them into civility one city at a time."

"I'm sorry, pizza?" Omorfia asked.

"Myrish pies," Lelouch said.

"I've not heard anyone name them that before." Omorfia frowned. "It does have a nice ring to it for a made up word. _Pizza_," she repeated, savoring the feel of the word.

"Less of a mouthful than Myrish pies at least," Donnall said, taking out his sword and a whetstone. "Do you know when the army shall depart? It's dull watching these two gallivant about the city."

"You certainly weren't bored this morning, or watching us at all for that matter, but worry not." Cici said, before turning to Lelouch. "We're leaving soon, aren't we?"

"We'll be boarding _Seafyre _for Driftmark a day after the Hightowers arrive," Lelouch said.

Donnall stopped to look up. "We're leaving before the army? What of your father's plans to-"

"Your princess won't be marrying anyone so soon," Cici interjected. "It will be after the war to a suitor with the right lineage and victories, as a reward. Only if the crown prince dies will the king be forced to wed her early to secure his line. As for a greater command, I suppose your father hasn't had any luck on that front with so much of your family's strength at sea?"

"Correct," Lelouch said.

Omorfia stared at her.

"How did you know all that?" Donnall asked.

"The game remains the same no matter which society you end up in," Cici said, launching a cryptic smile at him. "Do you have a plan to seize power, Lelouch?"

_Cici was sharp as ever. _Lelouch smiled. "I cannot allow myself to be subsumed under a lesser lord or waste my men on a fool's task. The Golden Company is too disciplined a force not to treat seriously."

"Those always did make for the worst enemies," Cici mused. "The pizza can wait then. I'm going with you."

Donnall balked. "To war? That's no place for a woman."

"My people are going to war," Cici said. "As the mayor of the free Myrmen, I must go with them."

"Am I to be left by myself in this city then?" Omorfia crossed her arms in front of her chest.

"It will not be without purpose. I have a favor to ask of you, Omorfia," Lelouch said. "You speak with the local merchants oft, do you not?"

"When it suits me."

"There's not a peddler in the markets she doesn't know the name of," Donnall said.

Lelouch nodded to his cousin in thanks. "I have need of information, and there are few I can trust to carry this out."

"Trust me? We've only just met," Omorfia said, though the pleased twinge on her lips was unmistakable. "What is it you seek?"

"The alchemists must purchase their reagents from someone in this city. I want to know what they've been buying of late, from whom and where," Lelouch said.

"A heavy burden," she said solemnly. "Whatever for? Do you wish to discover their secrets? You would not be the first to try."

"They can _rot_ with their secrets," Lelouch snarled. "If the damned fools are making more wildfire, I need to put a stop to it."

"Ah, but what do I get out of this? Such things won't come cheaply or easily," Omorfia said.

"A favor for a favor then?" Lelouch asked.

She smiled, her teeth all white and sharp. "A favor for a favor."


	14. Tide

**Chapter 14: Tide**

The chivalry of the Reach arrived as a relentless barrage of crests and colors snaking along the roseroad. Among the van heading towards them to speak with King Jaehaerys were banners Lelouch knew well. One after another came the three beehives, Bulwer's bull's skull, silver chalices and black roses quartered, the six flowers of Cuy, the butterflies of Mullendore—and chief among the sigils were the golden rose of Tyrell and the pale tower crowned with flames.

"Lord Hightower and his vassals hold the van, accompanied by one of Lord Tyrell's brothers," Lelouch said, setting down his Myrish far-eye.

"Lord Luthor has three brothers," Aerys said, glancing at Tywin in askance.

The Lannister nodded. "It will be the youngest brother, Ser Moryn. Gormon has chosen a life of study with the maesters, and Garth will be tasked with holding Highgarden as Lord Seneschal while Lord Luthor is away."

It surprised Lelouch little to hear the heir of Casterly Rock so knowledgeable about his southern neighbor. The Lords Paramount of the Mander and the westerlands might both claim to be the greatest lord in all the Seven Kingdoms after the king himself, if not for their overmighty, troublesome vassals.

"More banners behind the van," Steffon grunted, peering through his far-eye. "I recognize the coat of arms of Peake and Oakheart, but not the third. Interlocking golden rings on a sky blue field."

"That belongs to House Roxton of the Ring," Tywin said.

_These are all houses who supported Daemon Blackfyre during the First Rebellion, _Lelouch thought.

"I do not believe these lords were chosen by accident. Lord Tyrell is making a statement," Aerys said.

"_Blacks_," hissed Steffon.

"Or those who delayed in declaring for King Daeron, like the Hightowers," Lelouch added quickly. The Hightowers had fought for both Blacks and Reds technically, but to have Baratheon disparage them… that could not go unchallenged. He turned to Aerys. "I'm certain these lords mean to make up for the errors of their forefathers, just as I meant to. When Maelys sees his family's old friends marching at the van against him, he will know in his heart of hearts that the Blackfyre cause is dead and buried in Westeros."

Aerys nodded approvingly. "Well put. With this war, we shall end the Blackfyres and finally put behind us this ugly mark in history."

Leyton looked as he did some eight months past: tall, broad of shoulder, and rippling with muscles. Lelouch's brother, Corwyn, was never far from his knight and seemed nearly as tall as Lelouch now. His personal coat of arms—a lance and longsword crossed over a silver seahorse—fluttered proudly amidst the Reach banners.

"House Hightower answers the call, Your Grace," Lord Leyton said with a booming voice.

Besides him, Moryn Tyrell nodded. "Lord Tyrell and the main host shan't be long."

Aerys nodded. "I bid you welcome, Lord Hightower and Ser Moryn. Your houses' leal and loyal service to House Targaryen are appreciated. To my left is Lord Steffon Baratheon, heir to Lord Ormund Baratheon and Storm's End. To my right are Lords Tywin Lannister and Lelouch Velaryon, heirs to Casterly Rock and Driftmark respectively."

"Ah, we meet again, clever Seahorse!" Leyton said, eyes gleaming.

"You've met before?" Aerys asked.

"Once, Your Grace, when he was visiting his brother. Deadly with a bow, this one," Leyton said, grinning, "and even deadlier with a ship as it turns out."

"I am a Velaryon," Lelouch said.

"You'll be taking the field with us, I hope?" Leyton asked.

"All of us will," Aerys said.

Leyton shared a look with Moryn. "Is that wise, Your Grace? Given the king's health—"

"I could not ask the lords of the realm to bleed for my family's right to the Iron Throne, if I myself am not willing to do the same," Aerys said, before gesturing to the waiting servants holding the bread and salt.

Once Aerys' mind was made, there was little that could be done to sway him.

With the formalities aside, Lelouch walked over to his brother, enveloping Corwyn in an embrace. "What are they feeding you in Oldtown? You're nearly taller than I am, Brother."

"Alarra—" Corwyn started.

"—is in Driftmark recuperating. The danger is past her," Lelouch said.

He pulled away, hands tightening into balls. "I should have been here."

_It was my duty to keep her safe, _Lelouch thought. "Your place was by Lord Leyton's side, the same as any squire's during wartime." He thumped Corwyn's shoulder. "You did your duty."

"Did I? There was little enough for me to do on the road. I could have been here several weeks sooner if I'd ridden ahead. We were travelling so quickly even that archmaester of yours managed to catch up to us on an ass!"

"You're here now. That's what matters." Lelouch paused. "How have you been?"

"Restless," Corwyn said.

Lelouch nodded. "Don't get too cozy then. I will implore Lord Hightower to grant you leave to return home after we've seen to the necessary ceremonies here. Arrangements for a ship have been made."

"Will we have enough time to see her?"

"Lord Baratheon won't be back for at least a fortnight," Lelouch said.

"When do we leave?" Corwyn asked.

"Tomorrow, just after the High Septon's sermon."

It was another half hour before Lord Luthor Tyrell arrived. The levies and knights were left to make camp outside the city walls, but that still meant a small army of lords and lordlings would be guests of the Red Keep.

They would not be the only ones joining them that night. No sooner had they brought Lord Tyrell before the king did they need to head back out to the city gates with Lewyn Martell. The new addition to the Kingsguard was tall and slender like any salty Dornishman, with dark eyes and even darker hair. Martell alone among the white cloaks preferred the spear over the sword.

"You've been eyeing my spear for a while," Lewyn said.

"They say the Dornish are masters of the spear, but I've yet to see you in a fight," Lelouch said.

Lewyn grinned. "You prefer the spear as well. Are you looking for a spar or a _taste_?"

"The former will suffice, but it will have to wait."

"My sister said you'd be leaving for that quaint island of yours soon," Lewyn said.

That Princess Myriah knew was unsurprising, if unintended. Lelouch had told Joanna on purpose after all. "You've heard right."

"Next time then, when your hand is better healed perhaps" Lewyn said. "Your style is not so different from how we do it in Dorne, but it is unrefined."

"How so?"

"You do not know how to change your form," Lewyn said. "It is difficult to explain without a demonstration."

"I will hold you to that until we meet next," Lelouch said.

Unlike the Reach, from a distance it was difficult to pick out individual sigils from the line of sand-colored banners. The army of Dorne was a forest of spears and glinting turtle-shell shields and double-curved bows with the iron gate of Yronwood at their head—to Lewyn's obvious displeasure. The new addition to the Kingsguard was there not only to safeguard Prince Aerys' person, but to lead the Dornish contingent on his family's behalf.

"Lord Edgar Yronwood," Lewyn said, gesturing with his head to the mountain of a man at the column's head. "A prickly warrior, and quick to anger."

"And his son I presume?" Lelouch asked, glancing at a boy sharing Lord Yronwood's hawkish nose and freckled complexion.

"Ormond," Lewyn said, before turning to Aerys. "No doubt here to woo Princess Rhaella."

_A threat, _Lelouch thought. The Yronwoods were kings of old and second only to the Martells among the Dornish. He had the pedigree; Ormond couldn't be allowed to have her affection too.

"Kindly see to our guests, Prince Lewyn. The king would be _most_ displeased if they were to take ill before battle is had," Aerys said.

Lewyn narrowed his eyes. "As you say, Your Grace."

**-ZeroRequiem-**

Though they feasted and fucked, all the great lords of Westeros had gathered beneath one roof for the promise of a fight. Burly northmen drank with ironborn captains and knights of the Vale. Even the sons of the Reach and Dorne had left their swords at the door for subtler weapons—words, wine, and women.

"Pace yourself, brother. It wouldn't do for you to show up hungover before the High Septon," Lelouch said, gesturing for Alda to come over. The serving girl he'd slipped some stags to was quick to provide a goblet of Arbor gold, mixed as he specified.

"You've matched me all night," Corwyn said.

Lelouch brought his cup to his lips. "Mine's watered down."

"Surely the High Septon wouldn't begrudge us this?" Baelor Hightower, Leyton's son and heir, asked.

"He's a truly pious man," Lelouch said. "Besides, it would be _unwise_ to appear before the princess in such a state when you've only just met."

Baelor lowered his goblet. "I see why my father speaks so highly of you. What can you tell me about her?"

"She enjoys watching the spars. Do you see the boy standing next to her?" Whent had high cheekbones and a firm jawline, but was otherwise quite plain in looks.

Baelor nodded.

"That's Oswell Whent. Though a second son, he's a formidable knight and has been a favorite of the princess this past week," Lelouch said.

Baelor eyed him. "Mayhaps I'll test my steel against his."

"He's wicked quick with the blade. I've seen him best two knights by himself," Lelouch said.

"Baelor is a fine swordsman, almost on par with his father," Corwyn said.

"Truly? I wish you luck then," Lelouch said. Of all his "rivals" for Rhaella, Baelor was the least objectionable even if his father wouldn't see it that way. Their houses would remain aligned for the foreseeable future at least. _Besides, the king is keenly aware of perceptions. The last time the Hightowers had married into the royal family, a Targaryen civil war, albeit a different one, had been the result. Such a match given the current state of affairs might be misconstrued._

The tune the minstrels played turned jaunty, with a good beat. A signal to the lords and ladies throughout the hall that it was time to dance.

"Princess Rhaella, what a pleasure," Lelouch said as the silver-haired girl stopped at their table.

"Might I have a moment of your time, Lord Lelouch?" Rhaella asked.

Lelouch stood, holding out a hand to her. "You may have as many as you wish, Your Grace."

Her hand laid timidly on his, and he led her to the center of the room as a hundred pairs of eyes bored holes into every inch of Lelouch—Ronnel Arryn among them. "Lady Joanna mentioned your offer to deliver her letters to Alarra," Rhaella said as they began to move. "I thought—hoped you might extend me the courtesy."

"Here I thought you'd come to miss my presence after all," Lelouch said as others began to join them on the floor. Joanna danced with Tywin, and Aerys with Arwen Arryn. "It would be my pleasure, Princess. Sister will be delighted to hear from her friends."

Rhaella spun to the rhythm of the drum. As they faced each other again, she said, "Truth be told, I thought you'd already left for your island. You've made yourself quite scarce to me."

"Training and matters of campaign have kept me occupied, but you need only call me to your side if I'm sought."

"Not so occupied if you've time for my handmaiden," Rhaella said. "You and her have grown quite close."

"Lady Joanna likes to use me as one of many tools in pursuit of your brother," Lelouch replied.

Her brows furrowed. "And you don't mind?"

He smiled as the flutes and harps and pipes died down. "I'm of as much use to her as she is to me." Lelouch brought her hand to his lips.

"I'll have my letter sent to your rooms tonight," Rhaella said. "Fair travels, Lelouch."

"My thanks, Your Grace." Lelouch turned around. Ronnel Arryn was still watching him darkly. It was no secret that Lord Jon Arryn's younger brother remained unwed, and was one of the few lords that could hope to win Rhaella's hand. Lelouch walked right up to the Vale lord with a grin. "A fine night to you, Lord Ronnel."

The man grunted. "Likewise, Lord Lelouch."

Lelouch gestured to the goblet in his hand. "Shall we drink?"

"If you think you can hold your wine, certainly."

Lelouch smiled as Alda placed two pitchers in front of them. "I'm sure I'll manage." The man might be nearly a decade his senior, but his drink was undiluted and twice as strong.

**-ZeroRequiem-**

The Seven had blessed them with clear skies and calm seas and it would not be much longer before the _Seafyre _nestled in its home port.

"What you did to Lord Ronnel last night was underhanded, even for you," Corwyn said. "The man couldn't make his way back to his own room without help, much less dance with Her Grace. He looked quite ill during the High Septon's sermon this morning!"

_It was for the best that you weren't with me this past year to witness my atrocities then, _Lelouch thought. "He's a grown man. He ought to know drinking so deeply from his cups is not without consequence."

"Besides," Cici said, "his hangover will fade before the day is over."

"I don't believe we've had the pleasure of being introduced, my lady?" Corwyn said.

"You may call me Cici. Mayor Cici of the Free Myrish, if you wish to be formal," she said. "I've heard my pies have reached even Oldtown. Have you tried one, perchance?"

"You mean the Myrish pies? You made those?"

"I did," Cici said.

As Cici roped his brother in talk of the finest food in all the world, Lelouch turned his eye to the ever largening harbors of Spicetown. Trading cogs from Braavos and beyond streamed to and fro.

Archmaester Metselen's rod of lead came to a stop beside him. "Something on your mind, young lord?"

"Much coin and blood has been spent to keep the waters near Driftmark free from marauders and pirates," Lelouch said, "yet I fear even that might not be enough in the coming months."

"It is a heavy yoke, keeping the sea lanes safe," Metselen said. "You fear the Band of Nine. They'll make a point of targeting merchants."

A thousand cuts to bleed Westeros dry from White Harbor to Planky Town. Samarro Saan had drowned at the Battle of Seafyre with most of his ships, but the Old Mother yet lived. The Saan family, more than any other, had turned piracy into an inheritance to match.

Old Mother came from no one, and had grown old _as a_ _woman _in an occupation for young men. Yet, with blood, age, and gender stacked against her, she'd not only survived, but thrived to become the most notorious sea scourge on this side of Essos.

She was smart, lucky, and very, _very _dangerous.

A score of Velaryon ships flying the sigils of his house and bannermen waited at the pier, being resupplied for the coming campaign. It left more room in Hull for the dozen or so war galleys being built.

They disembarked from _Seafyre_ to a host of lords, knights, and captains waiting for them, for _him _to be more precise. Among the fluttering banners of winged sandals, thrones, and stalks of wheat was the steel spear on red. It was newer, but not any lesser for it in Lelouch's eyes.

Old Lord Dromin spoke first. "Lord Velaryon, Driftmark is yours."

Lelouch raised his still bandaged hand in greeting—a reminder that he had bled in Myr for their mistakes. "It is good to see you, my lords."

Lord Dromin looked around. "Your cousin is not with you?"

"Donnall has opted to stay in King's Landing for the time being. He will rejoin us once the campaign is underway," Lelouch said. "Have we any word from Ser Redmoore?" He'd given his good-uncle's vassal the command at Bloodstone while he was at court.

"Bloodstone remains firmly in our hands, my lord. No attacks from Blackfyre have been forthcoming." Lord Dromin paused, as if uncertain whether to continue.

Without his presence or a common enemy to band against, violence between Redmoore and the pirates was a given. The man a bloodhound on a leash with a talent for murder. "How many dead from bar fights and brawls then?"

"Less than a score from us. Easily twice that for the pirates, but we've not managed to get a proper count for them," Dromin said. "Before I departed, we _suggested _some whores move into our camp. It's kept the men out of Saintsport for the most part, limiting the opportunities for violence."

"Whose scheme was this?" Lelouch asked.

"T'was Ser Orin's idea."

The favored nephew of Lord Swyftfoot stepped forward, eyes not quite meeting his. The last he'd stood this close to Orin Swyftfoot was at Tarth, berating the lords who'd followed his uncle over him in Myr.

"Finely done," Lelocuh said with a curt nod. "Will my lords ride with me to the castle?"

"We would be honored to," Dromin said.

Spicetown had progressed nicely since he'd last been here a month ago. The grouping of mud huts and hovels that used to dominate the town center had been replaced by proper wooden tenements. Craftsmen by the dozens carved out quarrels, stitched lace, melted sand, and made dyes. Even more went to work raising storehouses, and a vast assortment of buildings. Yet there were all men of Essosi stock. Where were the men and women of Driftmark?

"You have an eye for irony, my lord, to rebuild Spicetown on the backs of the very people who'd sacked it in the past," Dromin said.

"I'm heartened that you think so," Lelouch said. "A fitting retribution, no?"

"Quite so, my lord."

"I don't believe I've offered you condolences for the loss of your son, Lord Chaseman." Disloyal Charles Chaseman might have been, but he was the sole male heir to significant holdings on Driftmark.

Dromin's features twisted. "He was a fool. I thought I'd raised him better than to so thoroughly drag our name into mud. Seven willing, my daughter might find a husband and bear sons with more sense."

_That explains why Lord Dromin had asked about Donnall, _Lelouch mused. A bastard he might have been, but it was no secret he had close ties to Lelouch.

A gentle sea breeze blew inland as the towers of Driftmark came into sight. Lelouch took a deep breath, glad that it did not smell of shit and squalor like King's Landing.

_It's good to be home_.

**-ZeroRequiem-**

Mother had called for the council of regents before he'd even reached father's solar to discuss the current state of Driftmark. Besides Lelouch himself, there were only three of them left: Mother, Maester Banneth, and Ser Morren, the master-at-arms.

It was to his surprise that Magister Zoutos and Ser Hughes Truespear were present as well.

_There must be concern over the Myrish and the Magisters, _Lelouch thought. Hughes had been given the unenviable task of settling the refugees while Lelouch had been in King's Landing and Magister Zoutos was his strongest partner among the Magisters.

"Welcome home, my son," Mother said as he sat in the Lord of Driftmark's chair.

"This must be a pressing concern," Lelouch said.

"Rasporos attempted to flee," Zoutos said.

Lelouch closed his eyes. This had not been entirely unexpected. Rasporos, more than any other, had been kept in line by the threat of losing all his slaves if he tried to abandon Lelouch's coalition. When he'd asked the Magisters to adopt the Pentoshi model, he'd lost that leverage legally speaking. How could he threaten to free slaves that on paper were already free? Opening his eyes, he asked, "Where is he now?"

"Under armed guard," Ser Morren said.

"Under what pretense?"

"Unpaid debts to House Velaryon," Maester Banneth interjected smoothly.

Lelouch nodded. "Bring him here."

It didn't take long considering all three Magisters resided in the castle at his invitation. It was much easier to keep track of them, and there were hardly any luxurious lodgings available to them otherwise.

Rasporos was shown into the room, red-faced and spluttering. "Perfidious! I owe no debts to your house!"

"Calm down, Magister," Lelouch said. "I'm given to understand that you wish to leave?"

"Myself and all my _free_ servants," Rasporos said.

"Those who would choose to follow you," Lelouch said.

Rasporos scoffed. "Of course they'd follow me."

There lay the crux of the problem. On paper, these men and women were free, but they didn't know that. There had been no grand proclamation, only what was necessary to maintain this legal fiction for the Sacred Struggle. Any threat he wielded against Rasporos—in the form of unreasonable taxes and port fees—would be seen as a threat to all the Magisters. While they were no longer instrumental in the war against Blackfyre and Lashare, the skills and knowledge their slaves possessed were _vital _if he wanted his demesne to become more than what it was.

Plus, the wealth they'd invested in shops and ships was not an insignificant sum.

"You understand," Lelouch said, steepling his fingers in front of himself, "that free men may choose otherwise?"

"Everything they have, I gave them. Their food, the roof over their heads, the clothes on their back… these things are not without cost. They owe me debt."

Debt they could never hope to repay when their wages were a fraction of the inflated costs the Magisters gouged them for such basic things. The Pentoshi were brilliant bastards.

"How much does each servant owe?"

Rasporos frowned. "About ten of your dragons each."

Maester Banneth balked at the figure. A smallfolk labourer couldn't hope to earn more than a golden dragon in a year's time, and already he was claiming ten times that in debt for two month's of servitude. "My lord, you cannot be thinking of taking on their debts? We cannot afford it!"

"I've read their contracts, Maester. Even if I wanted to, the Magister could always choose not to accept," Lelouch said.

"That's right," Rasporos said.

"I'm afraid you do owe House Velaryon some coin though, Magister," Lelouch said, raising a hand to stifle disagreement. "Your ships have used our ports freely these past two months and it has not escaped my notice that you've been trading all this time. We will be reasonable about it, and collect only what is our due."

Rasporos narrowed his eyes. "And after I've paid, I will be free to leave? Unhampered?"

"On my honor as a Velaryon," Lelouch said. "Maester Banneth will present you a figure tomorrow morning."

"So long as the fee is reasonable, we are agreed then," Rasporos said.

After the Magister had left, Maester Banneth asked, "Was that wise, my lord?"

"You have a plan," Zoutos said.

"Don't I always?" Lelouch asked. "Guards! Kindly ask Mayor Cici to join us."

As one of the Velaryon men-at-arms stationed outside saw to his wishes, Zoutos turned to him. "Your bed slave?"

Mother's brow arched up.

"I'm not sleeping with her, and she's not a slave," Lelouch said.

"Of course you aren't," Zoutos said. "The plan?"

"I'll need to borrow some gold," Lelouch said. _I cannot use Velaryon gold. Father and the regency council would never approve._

"All your plans involved borrowing gold," Zoutos pointed out. "I'm starting to wonder how you've yet to fall into debt yourself."

Lelouch smiled. "Have I ever failed to repay you?"

"No, which makes it me all the more curious," Zoutos said. "Fret not. You'll have your gold."

"My thanks," Lelouch said. "Ser Hughes?"

The one-handed knight stood at attention. "Yes, my lord?"

"I would hear your report on Spicetown now," Lelouch said. "I saw none of our smallfolk there this morning, save the levies that keep order."

"Few of the smallfolk wanted to remain after we built over their houses," Hughes said. "They are not entirely at ease having so many Myrmen around, given their differences in faith and history."

In other words, the demon-worshipping heathens that sacked their island a century ago were back. "We ought to encourage trade between Hull and Spicetown."

"We could always use more laborers," Zoutos said. "Plenty of construction going about. It would free up more craftsmen to do what they do best."

"A septon would not be amiss either," Lelouch said. "At least to show our people that some worship the Seven among them."

The problem would be coin. It always came back to coin in the end.

Lelouch sighed. _War was so much simpler._

**-ZeroRequiem-**

His baby cousin gurgled happily in Cici's arms, even as he knocked on one of the tower's many doors. Adamm Waters was light-skinned, with a tuft of golden hair from his mother. One might mistake him for a Lannister, if not for his eyes. It proved the babe to be of Valyrian stock.

It proved him to be kin.

The door creaked open. "Brother?"

Alarra's hair had grown back, as beautiful as he'd always known it to be. The only visible mark Summerhall had left on her was her stump of a hand. "Good morning, sister," Lelouch said. "Get dressed."

She frowned. "Whatever for?"

"We've a ceremony to attend," Lelouch said.

"But I—"

"Quickly now or I'll dress you myself!" Lelouch interrupted before she could excuse herself. Staying indoors for so long wasn't healthy.

She scampered off with an "eep!" to put on something more presentable.

"So that was Alarra," Cici said. "She's cute. Makes me almost nostalgic."

Lelouch ignored her words. "Is everything ready for later?"

"I've made my speeches and handed out the coin like you asked me to," Cici said, before cooing at Adamm. The baby tried to reach for her nose, but settled for a fistful of her flowing green hair.

Alarra returned to the door not long after in a gown of teal silk, with a sash tied around her waist and a seahorse pinning her hair up.

Lelouch nodded approvingly. Her maid had fine taste. "Come on then. I've had Meraxes and Seasmoke saddled already." He was moving already, certain that she would follow.

"But where are we going?" Alarra asked, struggling to keep pace.

"You still remember how to ride?" Lelouch asked in lieu of an answer.

"It's been a while," Alarra said. "If you're in a rush—"

"We'll go slowly if we must." As they reached the courtyard, the stablemaster set down a stool to make mounting easier on her on cue.

Hesitantly, she got on Meraxes' back. The silver-white mare neighed at her rider's touch. "How are you, girl?" Alarra said softly, rubbing her back.

Lelouch gave her a moment to settle in, before taking her rein in hand. Cici was already mounted on her own horse, completely at ease. "Ready?"

His sister gave him a small, uncertain nod.

"Don't worry," Lelouch said, flashing her a reassuring smile. "We'll go slowly."

They rode out of the gate at a sedate pace, on a road as well-paved as the kingsroad, though not quite as wide. It was fine weather for a ride, sunny with clear, blue skies overhead. As the road curved into a southwesterly route on the island's edge, Alarra spoke up. "We're going to High Tide?"

"It took you long enough to realize," Lelouch said with a teasing tone. "Yes, we are. The first batch of logs and stone are in place and Archmaester Metselen is ready to begin construction."

"Construction?" Alarra repeated.

"Many moons ago, you told me 'we might make more of this place than as it stands'," Lelouch said. "Those weren't just words for me."

She seemed deep in thought before she answered, "'A worthy seat for our house with a city to rival Oldtown in splendor, if not in people.' Isn't that what you said?"

"You remember," Lelouch said with a delighted grin. It wasn't long before they veered off-road into the sloping white sands. The faint outline of working men and masons came into sight. "Here, we reclaim the former glory of House Velaryon. They will sing songs of our names and write books of our deeds."

"Like the Sea Snake and the Oakenfist," Alarra murmured.

Lelouch nodded. "They will remember us."

Here it begins.

**-ZeroRequiem-**

As expected, there were items that Magister Rasporos found contentious in the final tally. That was always the case with good merchants, and magisters were better than most. By the time an agreement had been reached, it was well past noon. Everything was set for their departure, save gold changing hands.

Magister Rasporos laid claim to twenty-three of the ninety Myrish ships they'd salvaged from Myr on top of the three thousand souls that called him master. His was by far the largest portion of the magisters by virtue of being the earliest conspirator.

In another life, Lelouch and Rasporos might have toppled Zoutos' monopoly on the Myrish salt trade.

_It was not meant to be_, Lelouch thought, as the Rasporos handed him the sack of gold. With this, their partnership came to its official end. Lelouch handed off the coin to Maester Banneth for counting and weighing as he turned to the waiting crowd of slaves.

"The gods of Westeros, both old and new, see slavery as abhorent," Lelouch said in perfect Myrish. "And so, the Magisters had set you, all of you, free the moment they made this island their home. If any of you do not wish to serve your master any longer, all that is needed from you is payment of your debts."

He paused. "Are there any here who wish to do so?"

From the corner of his eye, he saw Rasporos' mouth drop as a slave who had mastered the art of lenscrafting made his way forward. "How much do I owe you, Magister Rasporos?" he asked.

"Myrish coin is of little worth to me now," Rasporos said. "Ten of these golden coins the locals call dragons."

The lenscrafter nodded and withdrew a pouch, counting out exactly ten dragons. With each coin, Rasporos' disbelief grew more apparent. "Please, count it yourself."

"Would you like to borrow our scale to weigh it?" Lelouch asked.

His eyes hardened. "That won't be necessary, will it?"

"No, it won't," Lelouch agreed.

Another slave stood, this one a glassblower. Soon a line had formed; people who knew the secrets of lace and purple dyes and even their local wines. Some thousand men and women altogether.

It was less than half of those here.

They did not possess a bottomless line of credit with Magister Zoutos, and so had to choose who would best serve their purpose. "This gold came from you," Magister Rasporos spat out.

"I gifted it to another," Lelouch said. "Where it went from there was not my business."

His shoulders slumped, and he let out a bitter laugh. "You're mad. Truly mad. No sane man would have given out a fortune like this when already in debt."

And he was, in truth. Who else would offer to pay half a decade's worth of wages in advance? People could succumb to sickness or even weasel away before their time was done. How was he to even keep track of everyone he'd handed out gold to when most of his armed men would be departing soon?

He couldn't. All he had was their gratitude for offering them terms that wouldn't see them eternally indebted, however much that was worth.

"You accept their payment as sufficient then?"

"I can hardly _refuse _to be paid what I'm owed, can I?" Rasporos said. It would be an admission that these were, in fact, slaves, and he already knew Lelouch wouldn't hesitate to have them freed in that case. He could take the gold and part with some of his slaves, or lose them all.

It was no choice at all.

"I should have inflated the prices more," Rasporos said.

"Yes, you should've," Lelouch said. There'd be no repeating this trick on the other Magisters though. Already they'd amended their contracts to make this ploy unfeasible even if he did acquire a significant source of funding.

"You've kept this interesting, if nothing else," he said. "I hope I will never have to see you again. Goodbye, Lord Velaryon."

"I wish you the best of luck, Magister Rasporos."


	15. Auxilliary

**Chapter 15: Auxiliary**

Lord Baratheon had returned to King's Landing, having reached an understanding with the Sealord of Braavos, though Father's letter did not discuss the details of the arrangement. He merely instructed Lelouch to bring the Velaryon Fleet to King's Landing.

Though the anti-slave greys ruled in Braavos currently, direct military aid was unlikely. This remained the expeditions of a foreign monarchy in their eyes, and they did not have so many followers of the Seven to make intervention a politically feasible option. Economic assistance too appeared far-fetched to Lelouch. Perhaps if the theatre of war involved Norvos and Qohor or Pentos—a Free City close enough to fall into their sphere of influence, but Myr was too far south.

The Hand was no fool. He would've at least secured a promise of non-intervention if the invasion was underway, for to challenge Braavos' fleet in the narrow sea was just a long, drawn-out suicide.

Whatever the case, the ships of Driftmark had the honor of bringing the vanguard to Bloodstone. While Tywin rode with him on the _Seafyre_, Lord Baratheon and Prince Aerys had commandeered the _Balerion_ from the Royal Fleet, which didn't surprise Lelouch given the Lord Hand's faction was opposed to his father's. Likely he thought to subtly curtail Lelouch's growing friendship with the crown prince.

"Lord Lelouch," Tywin said. "My uncle, Ser Jason Lannister. He leads the men of Casterly Rock and the West."

"Well met, Ser Jason," Lelouch said, dipping his head to convey respect, but not subservience. Joanna's father would be one of the principal commanders of the war. "Tywin and Joanna have nothing but praise for you."

Ser Jason was tall and handsome with an easy, roguish smile, like a knight from the songs and stories. Small wonder so many women had fallen for his charms. "I've heard much of you as well. Your victory at Seafyre was inspired."

"Your words honor me, Ser Jason," Lelouch said.

"It is not unearned. I'm surprised no one has seen fit to grant you your spurs yet. Men have earned more for far, far less," Jason said, glaring at the small, thin, and nervous Frey boy. Emmon was the exact opposite of the muscled Lannister knight.

"It is not titles that honor men, but men that honor titles," he quoted. "If I'm to become a knight, I should like to earn it properly. On the field of battle for deeds men will sing of, true and worthy."

Jason nodded. "If only more men believed as you did."

"I'm certain there will be plenty of opportunities in the coming days. We'll need to seize several islands before an assault on Essos is feasible," Lelouch said. "Highwatch and the smaller islands of Felstrong and Tor at the very least."

"Did your lord father tell you?" Tywin asked.

"No, but it seems obvious enough," Lelouch said. "Though I'd prefer to occupy a few more of the surrounding islands to secure our supply lines."

"You've a keen mind," Jason said. "It's through Highwatch as you guessed. Lord Baratheon seeks a quick resolution."

It was a risky plan, exactly the sort he'd favored in another life. If the Lord Hand succeeded, he would become preeminent in King Jaehaery's court. But if he failed… if he failed this war would get ugly. "I pray the Seven grants us swift winds and strong swords then," Lelouch said, glancing at the cotton-shaped clouds. _A good sign._

"I do believe," Tywin said in a lower tone, "we'll make good use of the coming opportunities. After all, shouldn't one who marries into our ancient and noble bloodline prove themselves _worthy_, Uncle?"

Lelouch grinned, showing all teeth.

"What have you in mind?" Jason asked, eyes darting between the two in askance.

"A place at the very front of the van would not be amiss. It would, in fact, be a great honor to bestow on Ser Emmon," Lelouch said.

"He'll earn being one of us, or who he won't," Tywin said.

Jason fell into deep thought. "What would it matter? Lord Frey would simply have Genna wed to another of his brood. He has no lack of sons and grandsons."

"Mayhaps, but he can hardly fault a woman for grieving?" Lelouch said. "It would not be proper to wed her off so soon after her husband's death."

"She cannot grieve forever," Jason said.

"She doesn't need to," Tywin said, eyes glinting like hardened steel. "Just long enough."

Jason nodded. "I shall give you a command of your own then. Make your play, I will back you to the hilt."

"Pardon me for the interruption, my lords," Donnall said. "Cousin, there's a matter in need of your attention."

"Go, don't let us keep you. Unless you plan on swimming to another ship, we'll have plenty of time to speak," Jason said with a grin. "Mayhaps we might even share some wine tonight. Tywin tells me you've a taste for it."

Tywin smirked. "He liked it enough with Lord Arryn's younger brother."

Lelouch rolled his eyes. "He jests. I drink mine watered down, especially during campaign. Best not to dull the mind when battle could be had at any moment." He turned to Donnall. "Lead on."

Given his social rank and the rather important fact that the _Seafyre_ was _his_ flagship, his private cabin was situated at the galley's stern. The captain's quarter held a dressing table, shelves, cabinets, and his work desk with an assortment of letters, papers, quills, ink, and air tight bottles where the daily logs would be sealed into daily. There was also a small, sturdy bed of good cedar where Cici was currently seated cross-legged, devouring a slice of pizza.

"Thank you for bringing this to my attention, Donnall." Lelouch crossed his arms. "No eating on the bed."

Cici swallowed the last of her food and licked her fingers. "You can't prove anything."

"I literally just saw you," Lelouch said.

"Maybe Charles planted that memory in your head?" she said, stretching herself out over the silk covers like a cat.

"If we get rats, it's on you."

Donnall cleared his throat. "Lelouch, you were aware that she was here?"

Lelouch blinked. "Where else would she be?"

"We're headed for a war! That's no place for a woman," Donnall hissed.

Cici snorted. "Half the whores of Saintsport will be with us when we finally land at Bloodstone, not to mention the other camp followers."

"Nonetheless, it's dangerous for you," Donnall said. "If you were to catch a great lord's eye—"

Lelouch snorted.

She pouted, fluttering her lashes at him. "You don't think I'm pretty enough to catch a _big, bad _lord's attention?"

"I wouldn't worry about her. She knows how to keep herself hidden. Short of keeping her restrained in a metal sphere under constant watch, there's not a force in the known world that could keep her," Lelouch said. "She managed to get in here even when I'd told the guards _not _to let her aboard."

"You ought to know better by now," Cici said, _somehow_ finding another slice of pizza.

"How did you—"

Cici shushed Donnall. "I'm a woman of many talents. Besides Donnall, we've already had this conversation back in King's Landing."

"I'm unconvinced," he said.

"If you get crumbs on my bed, you're sleeping on the floor tonight," Lelouch said.

She sighed dramatically, resting the back of her hand against her forehead. "Chivalry really is dead."

"The chivalric code applies to nobility, which you aren't, wench."

"I'm the mayor of the free Myrmen," she said.

"A democratic title you named yourself to undemocratically," Lelouch said.

She clapped her hands. "Right. Practically nobility then."

Lelouch smirked. "Not without a sigil."

**-ZeroRequiem-**

Many of the dens and lairs that pockmarked Bloodstone's shores had been abandoned by the outlaws. The smaller bands would not want to be stuck between two larger masses of angry and armed men. The pirate lords of Saintsport, however, weren't so eager to give up dominion of their haven when they'd spilled blood for it.

"My lord of Velaryon, you've treated with these men before, have you not?" the Lord Baratheon asked.

"Our interests happened to align during the Battle of Seafyre," Lelouch said, tilting his head.

Baratheon nodded. "Accompany then, if you would. Mayhaps an agreement might be reached with these outlaws before we need color this pretty sand even darker."

"I would be honored, my lord," Lelouch said.

A score of men, mostly stormlanders, joined them as they made for Saintsport from the fortified camp Lelouch had raised two moons and some days ago. Ser Redmoore had the good sense to expand their palisade and trenches to accommodate a larger host. The man was a bloodhound, but he knew his business.

"I suspect," Baratheon began, "that you expect a place in the war tent."

_A trap_, Lelouch concluded at once. If this were a simple offer, he wouldn't need to use so many words to dance around it. _If I say yes, I will seem to him an arrogant boy drunk on his one victory. If I say no, he has his reason to shut me out. _

"I dare not presume such an honor," Lelouch said, "but it would seem most beneficial to our cause if I were privy to these discussions given my family's contributions to this endeavor. Of course, I would be humbled to be among such fine lords and to learn the ways of war from them." He did, after all, command the fourth largest fleet and his father's post as Master of Ships meant he could theoretically contest Baratheon's direct command of the Royal Fleet, not that it would succeed. Putting those together would give him naval parity with Quellon Greyjoy's two hundred galleys and longships.

He grunted. "You speak pretty words."

"Only when the occasion demands it."

"You will be invited to the discussions, but not to discuss," he said. "We gave you a parade and the promise of a castle for your victory here. Bask in it, and keep your peace."

Could he push for greater say? Lelouch doubted it. Driftmark did not have the numbers, nor was his line so closely tied to the Targaryens like in the days of old. Lord Baratheon could claim closer ties through his wife even. That he was offered this much was a compromise and, by nature, meant neither side was truly and completely happy. "I understand, my lord."

Baratheon nodded.

Lelouch recognized a few of the faces that met them outside of Saintsport.

"You're back," Captain Lysandro said.

"With a bigger army now," Redmaw said.

"Not my army," Lelouch replied. "I am with Lord Baratheon, the Hand of the King. He comes with a great host of Westerosi."

Baratheon frowned. "I didn't know you were fluent in low Valyrian."

"I dabble. It's proven itself useful many times," Lelouch said. "I can translate for you."

"If you would."

A one-eyed man with a thick beard crossed his arms and sneered. "Are we to be pushed off our land by you sunsetlanders then?"

"That depends," Baratheon said, "on whether we can reach an understanding."

"What have you in mind?" the one eyed man asked.

"Any Westerosi or Braavosi ship is to be exempt from your raids," Baratheon said, "alongside any foreign ship headed for our ports. In exchange, you will be allowed to operate from Bloodstone or any of the other islands under occupation."

Practically speaking, that left the pirates with only the Three Daughters to steal from, or venture towards Volantis and beyond. In any other war, provoking Volantis and the New Ghiscari would be overreach, but this had become beyond a war for Targaryen legitimacy. It was also a religious crusade against the tenets their cities had been founded on. Their involvement, whether in coin or comrades, was only a matter of time. Regardless, a plausibly deniable form of privateering that would be vehemently denied in the future was invaluable.

Lord Hand was craftier than Lelouch gave him credit for.

The pirate lords shared some words. "Is that it?" Lysandro asked. "No… fees? We will remain free?"

"Yes," Baratheon said.

"We will bring your words to the other captains," Redmaw said.

"See that you do," Baratheon said, turning around.

Lelouch stood his ground. "A moment of your time, if you can spare it, friend Lysandro."

The pirate grinned. "For you? Of course! Business as lucrative as the last, I hope?"

"More," Lelouch said.

"This is what I like to hear!"

Baratheon furrowed his brows. "Are you staying here?"

"Lysandro and I have much to discuss," Lelouch said.

"Suit yourself. Do not be late to the war council tonight."

"I wouldn't dream of it, my lord." Lelouch faced the bearded Lyseni again. "How many ships have you now?"

"Four galleases now answer to me," Lysandro said, puffing out his chest. Ships seized from rivals of his, or those purged when Lelouch was last here. "They are swift ships, manned by good crews."

"I happen to have come across valuable information for a man such as yourself. A magister who has been… down on his luck shall we say. He still holds significant wealth, but his ships are poorly manned and without much in the way of resistance."

The Lyseni's eyes lit up. "Oh? And you know where these ships of his are?"

"Where and when they'll be," Lelouch said. Rasporos' ex-servants had loose lips.

"This is indeed of great interest to me, especially if they are as heavily laden as you imply. What are your terms?"

**-ZeroRequiem-**

Bloodstone's underdeveloped infrastructure worked against them, and by nightfall, men and material were still being disembarked. That hadn't stopped Lord Baratheon from furnishing his war tent with high-backed oaken seats, golden plates, fine tapestries, and an embroidered velvet map with elaborately crafted figurines laid out on the table.

They were at war, but Seven forbid the great lords of the realm were slightly inconvenienced.

Prince Aerys sat at the head of the table as Sers Redfort and Meadows flanked him on either side, some five paces away in their pristine white cloaks. A band of gold with seven iron spikes fit neatly on Aerys' crown, a smaller clone of the crown King Jaehaerys wore—the crown of Maekar the First. It was simple as royal ornaments went, but with a vicious quality to it.

Yet, Lelouch couldn't help but think the image Aerys, or rather his handlers were trying to project was undercut by the very men that sat beside him. Baratheon sat to his right, and Gerold Hightower to his left. Both men towered over Aerys' slimmer build. Aerys might be the symbolic representation of Targaryen might, but it was stormlander steel and the Lord Commander's reputation that gave it a real edge.

"Tomorrow," Baratheon said, voice like the crack of thunder, "we take the fight to the rebels."

"Not all of our men have landed," Lord Jon Arryn said.

"We do not need all of our men. What we need is speed," Baratheon said, tapping his fingers against the islands east of Bloodstone and Serpentholm. "I've received word that Highwatch, Felstrong, and Tor are lightly held. It presents us an opportunity to take them quickly, before Blackfyre can send more men and dig in. If they are allowed to dig in on these islands, it will drag this campaign on for months longer."

Quellon Greyjoy swirled his wine thoughtfully, took a deep draft, and sipped it. "What of the other islands? Blackfyre will use these to stage offensives against us and our supply lines."

"Given time, perhaps," Baratheon said. "I do not intend to let this war progress to that point."

Lelouch bit his tongue. A lightning war to punch straight into Essos and land a decapitation strike against Maelys Blackfyre. Against any other free company it would've worked, but the Golden Company was like no other. In an open confrontation where they weren't horribly outnumbered, they would smash any Westerosi force they faced.

Yet, there was some merit to the plan. Establishing a beachhead this early would allow the greater weight of their numbers to tell in time. They might even send for more men to come across the narrow sea provided they could hold enough land to forage from. Relying on supply lines across the sea was a risky proposition at best, and the Stepstones were not yet sufficiently developed to feed such large hosts.

"Lightly armored sellsails can't hope to hold the beaches from proper knights," Jason Lannister said, nodding to Lord Darklyn. "The westerlanders, stormlanders, and crownlanders have all landed in good order."

"Twenty-five thousand men, thirty-five hundred of which will be mounted," Darklyn said, stroking his chin contemplatively. It was a little over four-tenths of their host. "Aye, it can be done. The only threat I see is if we're beset at sea."

"That won't be an issue. Any fools who wish to challenge the Iron Fleet in the open seas may try their luck," Greyjoy said.

There was little will to challenge the first phase of Baratheon's plan. What came after was far more contentious. With Old Mother still roaming free, there was a need to garrison the islands if only to ensure they would not get cut off by even the lightest of raid, but none of the great lords wished to be left behind in such an ignoble role. There was little glory in it. In the end, it was agreed that each of the regions save the Iron Islands would provide three hundred men to act as garrison.

That allowed them twenty-four hundred men to hold four islands if all went according to Baratheon's plan. Combined with Greyjoy's ships to forewarn of any large concentrations, six hundred men could repel any middling assault on prepared ground.

"When we succeed," Baratheon continued, "we will press our advantage by landing on Essos directly."

Lord Runceford Redwyne pointed to an Essosi peninsula jutting out like a reaching hand of a beggar towards Westeros. "Landing here would be safest. It's far enough from Tyrosh that we ought to be able to land the whole of our strength unopposed."

Rickard Stark studied the spot critically, before shaking his head. "The Golden Company could bottle us up easily if we do that. If they do that, we'll run out of forage quick." From there, it would be child's play to harass their shipping and starve them out.

"We've the numbers to overwhelm them if they try that," said Romas Redwyne, the heir of the Arbor.

"I'm afraid I must agree with Lord Stark," Arryn said. "A fight like that will cost us much for little gain."

Jason Lannister suggested they land where the sea was narrowest between Felstrong and the mainland. A city, small by Essosi standards, stood there and it's harbor would greatly accelerate their unloading.

"Easy enough to take," the westerlander said.

"Nyr Tyso has more men than Lannisport has souls," Leyton Hightower said. "Even the least of the cities here have walls to match King's Landing."

Baratheon grunted. "They might lack the spine for a proper battle, but even cowards grow bold atop thick walls."

"They're coin counters and thieves and slaves with spears," Ronnel Arryn snapped. "They'll shatter before true men, walls or no."

"True men die all the same to arrowheads and spears," Brynden Tully said.

_Nevermind the sellswords Blackfyre would have sent to stiffen the resistance,_ Lelouch thought. That they hadn't done so to the islands was surprising, but that only meant they'd spent their efforts on Essos proper. It was unfeasible that a port city so close to the Tyroshi hinterlands did not receive military attention.

The third option was Darklyn's idea. If they could not land to the north or south, than straight down the center would do. The unmarked plains were fertile farmland undoubtedly run by some merchant. Food wouldn't be such a problem, nor ought they expect immediate armed resistance from the slaves that tended to the land.

"It would bolster the spirits of our men too if we were to break some collars early. Remind them that they're called to war for gods and king alike," Leyton said.

Baratheon looked uneasy at the suggestion. "If it comes to it," he said. "They might very well flee at the sight of us."

Aerys sat a little straighter as the finer points of the campaign were left to the wayside in favor of discussing who ought to be in the van. Each man clamored to draw first blood against the Golden Company. _Strange how eager men are to meet death, _Lelouch thought.

The council dispersed with the matter unsettled. Baratheon wisely made it clear that the conduct of the armies in the coming days would hold great sway in the deliberations.

**-ZeroRequiem-**

The Lord Hand was a hard taskmaster. Ships, Redwyne and Royal, headed for their targets before the midday sun. The Iron Fleet, which made up half of Greyjoy's strength, guarded their flanks and ensured no disruptions occurred. The rest of the ironborn longships splintered into uneven groups, going every which way on patrol though Lelouch had heard no orders in that regard. Still, the initiative their lords and captains showed was commendable.

If only they weren't reaving scum but a step above pirates.

In contrast, his own fleet had strict orders to stay put in case they were attacked or a need for reinforcements arose. Lelouch was under no delusions that he was being intentionally kept out of the war for now. One victory did not turn a lordling into a trusted commander.

War was not a glamorous affair. The realities of distance dictated it would be some days before any news could arrive, so over the next few days he busied himself in the hundred and a half things that needed doing.

The septons who'd followed them in Sacred Struggle requested a sept be built that they might cater to the immortal souls of their flock. Order had to be imposed on the sprawling chaos that was their ever-growing camp. Men dug ditches and sharpened stakes and drilled.

"I understand why you've your men doing it," Zoutos said with noticeable discomfort beneath the shade of a cedar tree, "but why need my men learn how to handle spear and shield?" Some thirty yards away, the Myrmen attempted to march in sync while Donnall bellowed orders at them.

"Quantity has a quality all its own. You'll never know when an extra six hundred bodies comes in handy," Lelouch said.

"It just isn't done," Zoutos insisted. To give slaves in all but name the means of seizing their freedom was a dangerous proposition for the magisters.

"This war will be hard fought despite the empty boasts you've heard from lords and lordlings," Lelouch said in a low voice. "If the worst should ever befall us, and this camp is sacked? Your dozen guards will be a laughable defense."

Zoutos hid his hands in the opposite sleeves of his silk attire. "And six hundred hastily trained men will be any better?"

Lelouch shrugged. "It'll take longer to cut them all down at least. Your odds of survival will be much higher in any case." So long as the slaves didn't take matters into their own hands and cut him down themselves. "Would you rather I humor the septons and have them build the sept?"

"I suppose there's not much else to be done while they're here," Zoutos said, glancing at what was little more than a squat, seven-sided cottage with straw thatching for a roof. "My granddaughter asked me to pass along a message."

"What word from King's Landing?"

"Those men you have her watching have been asking for lead plates."

Lelouch's brow furrowed. "Lead plates?"

He couldn't claim to be an expert in the higher mysteries, but he strongly doubted lead was necessary for wildfire, or any potions in that regard. It's toxicity when ingested was no secret. "Transmutation perhaps?" he muttered to himself, before shaking his head. What did it matter so long as they didn't make more of the cursed substance? "Pass on my thanks to Omorfia. Do you know what she wants from me?"

Zoutos eyed him from head to toe before answering, "I have an inkling, but she has not voiced her thoughts to me."

News from Westeros and the front alike were slow in coming. Without ravens trained to fly to Bloodstone, they could send messages to King's Landing in a matter of days and, if the storms were persistent, only hear back after a fortnight had passed. Four days after Lord Baratheon had set out, a galleas flying a cluster of grapes finally arrived with news from the Hand.

"My lords, we've won a great victory. All three islands have been seized without trouble, and even as we speak, a foothold into Essos is being established," Aerys summarized for the assembled lords. "Ships are returning for more men and supplies. Lord Lelouch, your ships have been asked to depart posthaste, bearing myself and men from the Reach."

"Why transport our army piecemeal like this?" Lord Yronwood asked. "We've enough ships, don't we?"

"The Iron Fleet under Lord Greyjoy is stationed off the coast of Highwatch to keep the Tyroshi honest," Lord Arryn said. "The pirates Blackfyre has allied with refuse to give battle as well, and menace us from the south unceasingly. The ironborn captains report several minor skirmishes at sea with them, but it doesn't account for the bulk of their ships."

Before Lelouch had handed Lysandro another Myrish trade route yesterday, the pirate captain mentioned Lys was not yet under siege by the Old Mother. It begged the question: just where was she and what was she up to?

As the war council concluded, Aerys signalled for him to stay behind. "I must confess," Aerys said, "I will be glad to be off this miserable rock at last. All this marching and training and waiting… the war has been nothing like the knights speak of."

"War is a dull affair interrupted by brief, violent flashes of terror," Lelouch said.

"I'd prefer terror to this mind-numbing boredom. I feel I might shrivel up and die if I need wait any longer for something, _anything_, to happen." Aerys said.

"I don't believe Lord Baratheon intends to put you in an excitable position."

Aerys scowled. "No, I'll be surrounded by thousands of knights and nothing to swing my sword at. How am I to earn my spurs or prove my valor like this?"

"He has other priorities," Lelouch said.

"Don't start on that. At least Tywin and Steffon will be with me. I swear, I was left with all the lordlings raised to kiss my arse. I haven't had a decent challenge since I got here because you're always missing!"

Lelouch grinned. "I'm afraid my hand remains injured."

"Ugh. You'll keep using that as an excuse, won't you?"

"Do you take pride in besting a cripple?"

Aerys made a face. "I'm the better sword by far, injury or no."

"As you say, _Your Grace_," Lelouch said.

He crossed his arms. "You know, you and Tywin always address me that way when you're being sarcastic."

Lelouch grinned even wider. "We are but your loyal servants."

Aerys groaned.


	16. Stand Vigil

**Chapter 16: Stand Vigil**

As the morning twilight sky was inevitably banished by the dawning sun, Lelouch surveyed Lord Baratheon's encampment from the _Seafyre_'s deck. The Plains of Naqes, as Cici had told him, were named for the yellow-gold grass native to the land.

He'd been busy all of yesterday overseeing the reachermen disembark without issue. They'd pitched their tents in the northern section of the camp with neat, straight trails ten paces apart, though the smaller tents away from the main thoroughfare was a haphazard heap that occupied any free space.

To the northeast flew familiar banners like the blue swordfish of Bar Emmon and the seven silver coins of Cressey and the Stars of Sunglass. Stokeworth, Langward, Mallery, Rosby, Staunton, Wendwater—the houses sworn to Dragonstone and King's Landing had come out in force under the command of Lord Darklyn. Only the Reach and the westerlands had provided more men, and for a region that could at most raise some fifteen thousand men, it was a great showing.

The southeastern banners were less familiar to him, but not entirely. Stags and griffins and crows leapt at every whisper of the wind. The quartered flag of Tarth he picked out easily among Caron and Selmy. Finally, the red and yellow lions dominated the southern segment of the camp.

Of all the men that had followed them east, two of three were here and the rest would arrive in a few days' time.

As Lelouch set down his fine Myrish far-eye, he spotted his cousin rubbing the sleep out of his eyes besides him. "What are you doing up so early?" Lelouch asked.

"I could ask the same of you," Donnall retorted. "You're the one who used to hate waking up early."

He shrugged. "I've grown accustomed to it these past months. It gives me time to myself, to think in silence."

Donnall hunched over the smooth taffrails, listening to the gentle sway of the tides. "Thinking? Aren't you afraid that brain of yours will explode if you do any _more_ thinking than you already do?"

"You haven't been paying attention to Maester Banneth's lessons."

"And you've been paying too much attention." He yawned. "You worried?"

"Some," Lelouch admitted.

"You shouldn't be," Donnall said. "We've got the numbers and the knights and even the gods on our side."

_Numbers can be beaten, knights can be ground down. Even the gods can be tricked. _"You saw them on Bloodstone. The Golden Company is unlike anything we've ever come across." _And the Golden Company would need to be beaten before they could hope to put Myr to siege…_

Leaving a bloodied and disciplined force like that free to harass them would be the death of any conventional siege.

"They're a tough bunch of bastards, I'll give them that," Donnall said. "What's our move?"

"For now, keep the men on their toes. Double their drills with the Myrmen while we can," Lelouch said. "Once the last of the host arrives, I expect Lord Baratheon will seek out the Golden Company. We'll be on the move for the better part of the day."

Donnall nodded. "Most of your fighting men will be on foot. We've maybe a score of knights with mounts. It will be difficult to win renown in a fight with the chivalry of the reach and the west at our flanks."

Driftmark did not have wide pasturage for horses to graze on, and what horses they had were paid for with coin. At sea, horses were more hindrance than help too. While their foot was better trained and disciplined than most other houses, many lords saw infantry as little more than fodder to soak up arrows before a glorious charge of mounted men decided the battle.

"Artillery and the Myrish crossbows will suffice," Lelouch said. _They will have to suffice._

"What will you be doing?"

Lelouch flexed his hand testingly. "My hand is nearly better," he said.

He had a standing invite to join Prince Aerys on the sparring field at the center of camp, not far from where the principal commanders convened. It was here that lords played at war while they waited for war, jostling for places of honor in the coming carnage. Even just past dawn there were already lordlings hard at it.

The whitecloaks, Redfort and Meadows, that had taken to watching Aerys in their every waking hour let him pass wordlessly.

Steffon Baratheon's two-handed swing of the warhammer had a murderous weight behind it, and Aerys flowed around the blow so gracefully, you'd think he was back in the Red Keep dancing with the maidens.

Aerys stepped inside his guard and swung his longsword, but Steffon was already jumping back, already preparing the perfect reply. Backhand, overhead, sideslash, the swings came so hard that sparks flew when their weapons locked lips. Aerys pressed on, strike and step, step and strike, the whirl of steel going faster, faster, faster...

...until, panting, Aerys stepped back, resting the flat of his blade against his shoulder. "You've gotten much better. Used to be I could end you once your attack broke."

Steffon let the warhammer drop to the dirt head first as he walked over to the watering bucket. "Father's drilled that out of me," Steffon said.

"Staying alive is half the point of a fight," Aerys acknowledged.

"I prefer the other half, the feeling when I'm carving in a man's chest," Steffon said, gulping down his drink before turning around. He paused. "Velaryon."

Aerys followed his eyes. "Lelouch! You're here. I was wondering when you'd show."

"This is only our second day here," Lelouch said.

"Exactly my point. So far, you've made yourself scarce for the entirely of our time here."

"I had matters to attend to," Lelouch said, twirling his spear.

"More training for those foreign sellswords of yours?" Aerys asked.

Steffon frowned. "Sellswords? The Myrish?"

"They're not sellswords," Lelouch clarified. "More a militia, you could say."

"Peasants then," Tywin said as he arrived clad in steel plate armor enameled a deep crimson and highlighted with gold. Each of its rondels were patterned as golden sunbursts. "I don't know why you bother."

"Would he be Lelouch without his peculiarities?" Aerys asked.

Tywin smiled. "A fair point."

"Another round, Cousin?" Steffon asked, hefting up his hammer.

"If you think you can manage it, you brute," Aerys said cheerily, placing himself in a guard.

As the royal cousins played their song of steel once more, Lelouch turned to Tywin. "I heard that the islands fell easily. Did your goodbrother conduct himself well?"

"There wasn't much fighting to be had," Tywin said. "He remains under my charge."

Lelouch frowned. _Why would Blackfyre give up the islands so easily?_

"I wouldn't be too concerned," Tywin said. "The war is not over. There will be more battles yet and soon."

"Soon?" Lelouch scrunched his brows together. "What makes you say so?"

"Our outriders have been skirmishing hard with the Golden Company since we arrived," Tywin said. "My uncle believes their cavalry means to pin us in place, buying time for the bulk of their host. They cannot be far off now."

"When does he expect them to arrive?" Lelouch asked.

Tywin shrugged. "Who can say? The scouts have not been able to break through their screening cavalry. It would depend on where they had camped and how large a baggage train they have. We'll spot them long before they arrive though. There isn't much shrubbery they can hide behind on flatlands like these."

_Odd_, Lelouch thought. _What was Maelys up to? They had not been contested on the islands, nor faced serious challenge at sea. Even here they've deigned not to bring their might against us…_

"You look perturbed," Tywin said, swinging his blade in well-practiced stances. "Is something the matter?"

"I find it curious is all. On both land and sea, Blackfyre has chosen not to engage us," Lelouch said.

"Mayhaps he's a fool."

"Mayhaps but it serve as naught to presume their incompetence. It could be we are merely ignorant of the greater scheme."

Tywin paused. "Could an attack on Westeros be launched? They have no lack of ports and ships from which such endeavors might be launched, and if they'd spent all this time denying our scouts…"

"It seems all too risky for Blackfyre's allies in Essos. He made pact with sellsails and sellswords and coin counters," Lelouch said. "Would they lend him their ships when they might soon be faced against a host as large as ours? Besides, such a gambit relied on taking King's Landing quickly and bringing the Lords Paramount to heel."

Unlikely given Lord Baratheon was uncle to the crown prince, and his own son would be next in the line of succession should anything befall Aerys.

"An ambush then, or some manner of perfidy," Tywin said.

"Plausible," Lelouch said. "The difficult is in knowing when and where they intend to strike."

"They knows these lands better than we do. Perhaps they wish us to overextend deep into the heart of Essos before cutting us off. Either starvings us out or forcing us to sap our strength on cities of little consequence?"

A defense in depth was not unreasonable from their position. Yet, he remembered his uncle's words just before Myr had fallen.

"_It will fall without blood being spilled," Uncle said. "These merchant princes are a weak-willed people. They will bow at the first sign of a storm and sign a peace."_

"These people view war differently from us," Lelouch said. "To them it is… almost a business of sorts. They've no reason to be loyal to Blackfyre, or to bleed us for his cause if they stand to profit more by letting us be."

Tywin made a face. "A disgraceful people."

When and where would the attack come? Lelouch found that he did not know, and he _hated_ not knowing.

**-ZeroRequiem-**

"Twice," Cici said, walking her fingers up his arm, "is merely coincidence. Thrice is a habit."

Lelouch spared her a glance, before casting his sights back towards the eastern palisade. "I mislike this situation."

"Because the great Lelouch doesn't have all the answers. Maybe if you came back to bed, you could think clearer," Cici said.

"I wouldn't be able to sleep," he said, setting down his far-eye.

She sighed, and pushed a warm cup into his hands that chased away the nipping cold. "I thought you'd say that. Drink this."

A floral aroma reached his nose, lingering, before a northerly breeze stole it away. "What is it?" he asked after a sip. It slid down his throat easily and left a sweet aftertaste.

"Black Tea from the Isle of Leng," she said.

He searched his mind, only placing the location as vaguely to the far east, beyond New Ghis which was the furthest extent of most Westerosi maps. "That's a long way off from here."

"You'd be surprised what those pirate friends of yours come across," Cici said.

"I don't know how you find the time to do half of what you do."

"A woman has her secrets," she said, slipping back into the Lorathi Valyrian she'd favored while a slave of Rasporos. "It's not healthy for you to keep this up."

"I won't have to." Lelouch took another sip, savoring the fruity and slightly nutty tones. "The Redwyne Fleet will return any day now with the last of the host."

Cici tilted her head. "Then you'll finally stop standing vigil over this lot like a mother hen."

"Ha-ha," Lelouch said dryly, peeking through his far-eye once more to scan the edges of the camp. The eastern palisade was empty. He blinked, frowning as he did another sweep. "Where've the sentries gone," he murmured, looking up at the sky. _Dawn's too far out for the watchers to have been relieved. _

This was it.

"To arms!" he bellowed, stomping as hard as he could on the wooden deck. "To arms Driftmark!" He repeated his call, shouting as loud as he could, feeling his voice scrape the insides of his throat like a paring knife.

Cici had vanished when the first of the levies climbed up from beneath the deck, clumsily strapping on their helmets with one hand while holding their spears in the other. Their eyes blinked rapidly, not quite awake or conscious, but going through the motions hours of Donnall had taught their muscles.

Lelouch stepped up to the closest one and grabbed a fistful of his clothes, pulling the man into a slap. "Awake, damn you! We're under attack!"

"M'lord?"

"Spread the word to the other ships. All men to assemble as drilled, with crossbows and ballistas."

As the men began to come to their senses, running off to the other anchored Velaryon ships to repeat his message, Lelouch turned back to evaluate the situation. The gates were wide open and torches by the dozen were streaming in and spreading out—too fast to be anything but mounted men.

It would take several crucial minutes for his message to spread, time better spent if there was a means to signal the whole of his fleet at once.

Donnall appeared armed and armored, gripping the hilt of his bastard sword tightly. "Cousin, what's going on?"

"The Golden Company is making their move," Lelouch said.

Already the tents of the crownlands and stormlands were ablaze, and panicked men were being cut down by the heavy horse. Any lords or captains who'd thought to be brave were targeted by the roving bands. That whole section was lost, all fourteen thousand of them. Not all of them would die, provided their host survived the night, but in their state no defense would be forthcoming.

Lelouch looked back to the men already assembled. _Too few, _he thought, _but there's not enough time. _If left unopposed for much longer, the chaos would spread deep.

He could send Donnall with a little over three hundred men to—

_They wouldn't hold if he led them, _his mind whispered back. _Donnall is not their lord. _

Cici returned, carrying his longbow already stringed and a full quiver. "You'll need this."

"I'm leading the vanguard out," Lelouch said to his cousin, the yew cool to his touch. "I need you to stay here to continue the muster."

"My place is with you," he said.

"We've no time for this," Lelouch said, already moving down the gangplank. "I have no one else here who can ensure the men are prompt and in good order. They know you, and they won't question you. We'll hold them off long enough for the ballistas to get into position. Reinforce us as soon as you're able."

Donnall nodded tersely. "We've come this far together. Don't die on me."

"Don't take too long," Lelouch said, before lifting his fist into the air. "Driftmark, with me! The old! the true!"

"The brave!" answered some three hundred voices. Young boys clad in boiled leather with halfhelms for their crowns. He led them to their deaths with nothing but spears and shields of heavy oak. On their shoulders rested the realm, though no one would ever know their names for it.

At a brisk jog, they made good pace along the thoroughfare. The camp was beginning to wake now, all notions of sleep dispelled by the screams of the dying.

The smallfolk were rooted in place by fear, watching them march past dumbly. There was cursing and ringing metal to be heard from within the larger tents—lords and knights struggling to put on their cuirass and platemail in the dark and in their panic.

No one seemed to have a clue of what to do.

He called for a halt before the main camp road running north to south. This was as far as he dared take his men, for beyond the thoroughfare was a riot of screams and smoke. To some fishmonger's son with summer dreams, a knight crashing through the flames would seem like the dread tales of snarks and grumpkins and Others come to life.

"Lock shields!" Lelouch ordered. "Lock shields and spears out!"

A pimply lad with a crooked nose planted the Seahorse banner into the dirt, before taking up a place in the shieldwall. Men were trickling past them. It was easy to tell friend from foe by the fear in their eyes.

He heard the hoofbeats smacking heavy against the dirt before he saw them: a knight riding men down and opening a skull with each swing of his bloodied morningstar. Lelouch's hands drew, nocked, and fired in a single, smooth motion, and the fir shaft drove itself straight into the knight's eye. The corpse slid off the chestnut destrier galloping away.

"Driftmark!" The men banged their shields twice. "Driftmark!" The banging grew more spirited with each repetition; the voices louder, pushing back against the noise of war.

"DRIFTMARK!"

Their cheers were like a compass, leading men to them. The trickle of passing men turned into a stream of crownlanders and stormlanders. A contingent of heavy horse charged their bristling wall of tipped steel and study, oaken shields, but these Blackfyres were no Winter Wolves under Roddy the Ruin. They charged, hoping perhaps to break those sworn to House Velaryon.

In the end, the horsemen blinked first..

As they turned their horses and veered away, Lelouch emptied his quiver into the flesh of their horses, wherever the barding did not cover. A man in good plate might shrug off an arrow, and the chinks in their armor smaller than those of their mounts.

Smaller fires now raged to the south where the Lannisters and Reynes held command. Yet, he couldn't order them to move. Theirs was likely the only force left between the Golden Company and Aerys' tent.

More of his men now began to arrive under his lords and their numbers swelling to over a thousand. Myrish crossbowmen took up position to their rear, angling their shots in parabolic arcs. Their lines extended to a hundred men standing shoulder to shoulder, and packed ten ranks deep. The ground here was well trod, providing even footing for their men.

The problem was that Maelys Blackfyre knew that as well.

The small bands of cavalry weaved death and fire and chaos throughout the camp, but it was the foot Lelouch truly feared. Golden armor glinted under the dawning sun's light, as the phalanx advanced towards them, ignoring the arcing quarrels with contemptuous ease.

Lelouch glanced behind him and his heart fell. The ballistas would not reach them before the Golden Company did, and it would be the end of them. The spears of the phalanx were longer and their ranks packed tighter; it would be a slaughter to pitch his men against theirs.

Yet, what choice was there?

Lelouch picked up a fallen spear and shield, positioning himself at the very back. "Driftmark, forward!" And they followed.

The two masses crashed into each other, and for the briefest of moments, the Golden Company paused as a furious contest of strength and will ensued. Men shoved against each other, shoved the men in front of them forward, shoved the tip of their spears into the face of their enemies.

Then the cracks showed. A Velaryon man was felled and no one stepped in to fill his place. The Golden Company took a solidary step forward, wedging the break. Another of his men died, and another and it was clear to everyone that they were _losing_.

The men besides Lelouch, closest to the rear, dropped their weapons and broke rank. More and more ran away, and without that weight, their front collapsed. Like a tide against stone, his men shattered, and the golden phalanx advanced slowly, inevitably, grinding the dead beneath their heels.

How many men had died at his word just now? Fifty? A hundred? Lelouch dared not look as his feet carried him to safety, behind a new line of Driftmark men forming around their banner.

"Ballistas, loose!" Lelouch shouted even as he ran.

Bolts longer than a horse streaked through the air, and a number of them skewered fleeing men. But more hit their mark, and swathes of the golden men were brought low. The ballista crews could only manage one shot per minute, but that was enough to utterly shred the enemy formation.

A trumpet blared, da-DAAA da-DAAA da-DA da-DA da-DAAAAAAA.

"Beneath the gold, the bitter steel!" screamed the men, dropping their spears for drawn swords and crashing into Driftmark's lines just as Lelouch reached it. Dozens of men fell punching a gap through the Velaryon shieldwall, but scores more forced their way in. Steel rang and steel sang.

With a hastily drawn sword, Lelouch parried a strike that would've sewn through his face cleanly. He pushed himself away, putting distance between him and the scarred man with a hard look. Before the scarred man could close, a man old enough to be Lelouch's father put himself and his shield in the way. The scarred man rained blow after blow down on the wood, sending chips of oak flying, until his sword found an opening.

The fight was brief, but it brought Lelouch a moment's respite and time enough to fall further back.

All around him his men died as greater skill and better arms carried the day. Even the greenest boys in the Golden Company was veteran of a dozen battles.

A horn sounded from the south.

Two hundred knights swept forth, the crimson-and-gold lions of Lannister pouncing with them. Sunlight flashed off the points of their swords and maces as they crashed into the mass of gold.

Their enemy had not crumbled beneath the hammer of a mounted charge, but the losses they suffered were significant. Their flank now turned, their enemy was pushed back for the first time.

Another trumpet blared, different from the first. The sound it made was deeper, and when it ended, Lelouch could hear hissing.

His shield came up over his head as a vast flight of arrows fell on them like hail. Where they came from Lelouch couldn't say, but they fell on friend and foe alike, rattling off shield and armor or biting into flesh. The flight of arrows felt unending—then it stopped.

When he lowered his shield, the Golden Company had _somehow_ managed to break away from them without routing, leaving the Westerosi to their dead.

Lelouch looked around him, heart clenching as a thick layer of Velaryon men covered the field, interrupted only by the occasional golden corpse. At a glance, he'd lost some five hundred men. _Too many for too few_, Lelouch thought.

He spotted Old Lord Dromin, last of the male Chasemans, riddled with arrows. A suitable marriage would have to be arranged for his daughter, who'd lost a father and a brother in the span of a year. He made note too of Ser Dennis, who'd taken a nasty gash to the chest and was quickly bleeding out.

Tywin cantered up to him, face streaked with blood not his own. "It's good to see you alive."

"You as well," Lelouch said. "If not for your cavalry, we might not have held."

"We would have come sooner, but they struck our section as well. The men who assailed us didn't wear such garish armor though," Tywin said, dismounting. "Had you not lasted this long…"

It would have been total disaster.

As they walked, he noticed a scrawny body wearing not Lannister red, but silver-grey dyed red with blood. Lelouch paused, kneeling down to get the boy's pulse. Nothing.

"At least he died proving himself," Tywin said.

Lelouch nodded, closing the eyes of Emmon Frey for the last time. He'd conspired to see this boy dead, and now that they'd succeeded…

Lelouch just felt empty.

_Did he truly deserve this?_


	17. Interlude - By This Vow

**Chapter 17: Interlude - By This Vow**

Maelys Blackfyre watched the slaughter unfold atop a palisade built by now dead men to keep him at bay. Well past dawn, the sun pressed warmly against his back and made the three golden prongs carving through gleam ever so bright . It was a shame that even the central thrust had stalled though.

"Sound the retreat," Maelys said.

"Your Grace?" said Captain Peake. "We might still do more harm if we commit our reserves."

Twenty-five hundred strong armed with pikes and aged like wine waited beyond the walls. If he sent them in, if they shattered this host , luxury killed Aerys Targaryen, there would be nothing left between him and the Iron Throne save a sickly old man and his wailing women.

Yet, much as he wanted to believe that, being born with two faces did not afford Maelys the luxury of self-deception.

This would be no quick victory, but a trial of wills. At a terrible cost of lives, the Lannisters and Tyrellls and Velaryons had checked his advance on all three fronts and more men made ready by the second behind their lines. Eventually the weight of numbers would press too heavily on the scales of war.

For a moment, a twinkling in time, he'd tasted sweetness. The stormlanders and crownlanders had been scattered and it looked as though no force could stop them from splitting the enemy host in two. Had it succeeded, total rout would surely have followed as his enemies saw nothing but gold and dead comrades all around them.

"What a curse, truly," Maelys said, licking his lips, "to have it so close in hand that you might nearly grasp it. To see what could have almost been."

_Was this what Bittersteel felt all those years after the Battle of Redgrass Field? _

"Sound the retreat," Maelys said again. "I will not repeat myself a third time."

"At once, Your Grace," Peake said. The bastard grandson of a Peake was a good officer, but he lacked _vision_.

A trumpet blared, its sound a deep baritone each man knew by heart. All along the elevated position, men nocked… then loosed their shafts at the orders of their captains. Arrows rained down on his men and enemies alike, but each man of the Golden Company knew not only of their use, but that of every other man. So when the arrowheads descended, the foot was well prepared to fall back with raised shields.

Just like that they broke off cleanly from any entanglements. If any host thought to pursue, like some fool Reacher footmen after his northern fork, they'd find themselves a subject of great interest to his longbowmen.

Maelys looked one more time at the fluttering Seahorse banner. Myr, Bloodstone, and now here—at every turn the Velaryons defied him, but he could respect their commander. How many men could have made the choice he had, to throw lives into a meat grinder in order to buy a few precious minutes? It was a hard choice, a simple choice, but the right choice.

The man had a _spine_, and that Maelys respected.

He descended from the palisade and mounted his waiting pale charger. The mounted men of the Golden Company and the Knightfall Company were already outside, and the first golden prong of fifteen hundred men was halfway through the gates.

Spotted Tom drew up beside him. "A great victory. They'll not sleep well for many moons after this."

"How many losses among the Cleavers?" Maelys asked.

"Five hundred men mayhaps," Spotted Tom said. "Those lions put up a fight."

They couldn't have lost more than eight hundred men altogether then. "We bloodied them, but this is the first of many battles," Maelys said.

As the second prong completed their withdrawal and stomped on yellow-gold grass that reached a man's waist, a serjeant ran up to them. "Your Grace, Captain Hill reports heavy cavalry massing outside the northern entrance."

"Ha! What bloody fools!" Tom said, rubbing his hands together.

"Inform the reserves that they're to expect a charge," Maelys replied, pausing for a moment. "Serjeant Rolan Rivers is to assist them with his bows."

"Only a hundred bows?" Tom asked as the serjeant ran off.

"A hundred of my best marksmen with weirwood bows," Maelys said. "If they can clear the palisade at night from four hundred yards, a mass of horses shouldn't be a problem."

Tom nodded. "A shame we couldn't get Old Mother to stop bothering the whores and bring her fleet around. She ought not toy with them and just storm the damn island."

It was not as simple as the Santagar bastard made it out to be. Old Mother didn't have the heavy infantry to take the island that way, nor the claim to hold such a gain through any means save force.

"She needs legitimacy," Maelys said.

"She's a _pirate_," Tom said.

"Exactly why she needs it. The Magisters of Lys must acclaim her, or she'd have uprisings on her hands the moment she departs." A lesson Spotted Tom would do well to learn if he hoped to keep the westerlands when they won. The lords of the west would not take kindly to a Dornishman as their overlord.

"Is Lashare still holed up in Myr?" Tom asked.

"He claims a Dothraki khalasar is passing through," Maelys said, "and dares not leave Myr too weakened less they sack it and the whole of the Disputed Lands."

Tom snorted. "Pigshit."

It took the knights of the Reach such an embarrassing length of time to form up that the Golden Company's withdrawal had been completed before they even posed a threat.

"A mass of knights unsupported?" Maelys said in disbelief, eyeing the thousand mounted men riding to their deaths. "Their commander can't be fool enough to think this will work?"

Tom grinned at him. "I forget sometimes that you spent your whole life with the Golden Company."

"Speak plainly."

"In Westeros," Tom said, "they see the foot as nothing but arrow fodder and to pin the enemy in place. None of that fancy maneuvering you're fond of. No one fights together like the Golden Company does."

As the Reach knights charged, their reserves turned into five hollows squares, a wall of tipped steel facing everywhere. As the Reach knights floundered before the pikes, their archers picked them off at their leisure inside the squares.

As the Reach knights ran, they died in droves.

**-ZeroRequiem-**

_War was nothing like the stories. _Aerys buried his face in his hands. "Ten thousand?" he repeated. Ten thousand lost… that was one in six men that'd followed them east, a fourth of their current host.

"Maybe half of those just grievously wounded," Lelouch said. *Not all of them will die."

"Yet, they'll not be able to fight again during this campaign," Tywin said.

The tent flap rustled and Aerys picked up his head.

Steffon had stepped inside, eyes downcast and shoulders slumped. He paused for a moment, scowled, then plopped himself onto a seat by the far side of the table.

"Steffon," Aerys started, heart clenched with dread, "is your father—"

"He'll live," Steffon said.

"Thank the Seven," Aerys said, breathing a sigh of relief.

"Will he be able to attend the great war council later?" Lelouch asked.

Steffon nodded curtly.

"I'm glad," Tywin said. "We've lost many fine men today, Lord Darklyn among them. We cannot afford to be robbed of our principal commanders at this dire hour."

As the Reachmen botched their counterattack, the fighting came to an end and he'd pieced together what transpired from disjointed reports. The Golden Company has wiped out their sentries quietly and stormed the gates. Cavalry was sent in first to spread chaos and strangle any resistance in its cradle, buying time for three phalanxes to enter. They'd gone after the crownlanders, stormlanders, and Aerys himself, while sellswords and freeriders allied to Blackfyre menaced the Lannister and Tyrell contingents.

"I am in need of counsel," Aerys said.

"We ought attack once the last of our host arrives. We still hold the greater numbers, and it will tell once pitched battle is had," Steffon said. "We must wipe clean the shame of this defeat."

"We've not the means to press on with morale as it is. Another defeat like this would be the end of us," Tywin said. "Withdraw, leave behind contingents of men that will put to torch every farm from here to Myr until their victory tastes more bitter than defeat."

Aerys turned to Lelouch, and raised his brow.

"You must be knighted."

Aerys blinked. "What?"

"You must be knighted," Lelouch repeated, "by Ser Gerold perhaps."

Aerys shared a befuddled glance with Tywin. It would be a great honor to swear his vows before the White Bull, but it was an honor he had not earned.

"This is not the time for _games_," Steffon snarled.

"Peace, Cousin," Aerys said, raising a hand placatingly. "Explain yourself, Lelouch."

"Tywin is correct. The men need something to raise their spirits, and as things stand, I am not certain we could snatch victory from Maelys Blackfyre. We need something symbolic then, and what better a symbol then the crown prince receiving his spurs at long last?" Lelouch said. "We need a figure to rally the men. You're handsome and decent enough with the sword. All you need is the knighthood. Perhaps even a mass ceremony for the squires who distinguished themselves in combat."

It would go a long way to fix the fractured pride of the lords especially. "I will consider it," Aerys said. "But we've more pressing matters."

"There's nothing more pressing than men who've lost the will to fight," Lelouch said. "All our maneuvers will be for naught if they refuse to lift their swords. As for the army itself, I agree with Tywin. We'd best withdraw and solidify our hold over the Stepstones."

"You don't think we can win," Aerys said.

"If I may speak frankly?"

Aerys nodded.

"We cannot best them on the field. Maelys Blackfyre has proven himself competent, and the Golden Company are without peer. They'll best any army of equal numbers we send against them and do so with the slightest of losses."

"We have the numbers," Steffon said.

"The cold arithmetic of war dictates we'd _lose_ in such a war of attrition even if the lords would consent to such senseless slaughter," Lelouch retorted. "As for a large host, it would be too cumbersome to force an engagement. They'd dance around us, starve us out."

_This from the only man who could claim to have bested the Golden Company. _Aerys frowned. "Could you beat them?"

"With ten thousand men and years to forge them into a proper force?" Lelouch asked. "I believe so. But we've not the men who'd consent to be ordered by some lordling from Driftmark, nor the time to spare. We must fight as the world is, not as what we wish it to be."

Tywin remained silent with that thoughtful look in his eyes.

"What do you propose then if it is truly so hopeless? _Surrender_?" Steffon said, face twisting into something bitter.

"Nothing so drastic," Lelouch said. "A winning strategy is born when strength is married to opportunity. What are our strengths? We've more men than Maelys Blackfyre could ever hope to muster. Each man we lose can be replaced. We can split our host into smaller ones without weakening how well each man can fight overly much. The Golden Company cannot say the same of either of those things."

"What are our opportunities?" he continued. "The Golden Company cannot be everywhere. Liomond Lashare did not take to the field, and I suspect he remains in Myr. Tyrosh, Lys, the Stepstones, and the Disputed Lands cannot all be defended by one force."

"You wish to divide the army," Tywin said.

"Precisely," Lelouch said. "Maelys Blackfyre has no legitimacy save what victory gives him. So I say we give him none. Deny him battle, and if he should send his allies away to deal with a threat, we pick them apart piecemeal. _That _is how I would fight this war."

"War is nothing like the stories," Aerys said softly.

Lelouch shrugged. "The stories remember only the glory, and none of the drudgery. It wouldn't be entertaining otherwise."

"I thank you, all of you, for your words. You've given me much to think about," Aerys said.

"Your Grace," the three said, dipping their heads before leaving him to his thoughts.

_Knighthood would be a fine thing_, Aerys mused.

He traced his fingers along his uncle Ormund's embroidered velvet map. After the war was won, prizes would have to be doled out for loyal service. The Stepstones would make for fine fiefs once the pirates were rooted out and stout keeps were raised. Control over it would be a boon to the Iron Throne's purse.

His own hand in marriage would be the greatest prize to many lords, and his sister's a close second.

There were other titles that could be doled out as well. No doubt a position or two in the kingsguard might become available with over half of them marching with the army. Lord Velaryon's own health was failing, though Lelouch would be gravely insulted if he was passed over for master of ships. He'd been a steadfast supporter of their cause, and his competence could not be questioned in matters of war.

"Mayhaps I'll keep some of the Disputed Lands for Westeros," Aerys murmured. The lands here were certainly fertile, and he fancied having a foothold on this side of the narrow sea.

He was brought out of his thoughts by another visitor.

"Your Grace," Uncle Ormund said. Strips of bandage ran along his left cheek and he walked like a man in pain.

"Shouldn't you be resting?" Aerys asked.

"There are matters we need to discuss before the great war council convenes," Uncle said, easing himself into a chair with a wince. "My duty to your father and you comes before all else."

"I think I'd prefer it if you _lived_ to do your duty."

He laughed. "I'm a stormlander. A few cuts and bruises won't kill me."

"And the gash on your cheek?" Aerys asked.

"It'll scar with time, and make me look far more dashing in a rugged sort of way," Uncle said.

Aerys couldn't help his grin. "What need we speak of?"

"Fault," Uncle said sombrely. "The lords will clamor for someone to blame this disaster on. It must lay solely at my feet."

Aerys blinked. "You're hardly the only man to blame. The commanders of the sentries—"

Uncle cut him off with his hand. "They are all dead, and dead men will not soothe their anger. But above all else, this failure cannot be attributed to you or House Targaryen. That would be a dangerous development, and let treachery lurk in the minds of men. Your position must remain unassailable in the eyes of lords."

Few lords would ever willingly take on blame, nevermind when there was plenty of that to be shared. "You would do this for me?"

"You're my nephew," Uncle said with a kindly smile. "I would do anything, _anything _to protect your birthright."

"But… if you do this, you can no longer head the army," Aerys said.

"You are correct. Lord Commander Hightower will take my place. I've already spoken to him," Uncle said.

Aerys' eyes widened. "That cannot be easy for you to do. I know that you and he have not always seen eye to eye."

"We may not agree on all things, but I have never doubted his loyalty to your family or his skill at arms. I can think of few men I would entrust the burden of command," Uncle said. "There is also the matter of Lord Darklyn's passing. Someone must lead the crownland houses."

"I can lead them," Aerys would normally say, but it did not feel right, like it would be a failure of some test. _Your position must remain unassailable in the eyes of men, Uncle said_. "Lelouch Velaryon," he said at last.

Uncle nodded. "There is no one else. Tales of his valor have spread far and wide, and many of the crownland lords would themselves have died if not for his timely intervention. That he remains unknighted might soon become a source of contention." Uncle leaned forward. "More to the point, his remains the single largest force among the crownlands with the Duskendale levies decimated. By my count, just under a third of the surviving crownlanders are sworn to House Velaryon."

"Speaking of knighthood, Lelouch had a proposal," Aerys said. "A mass ceremony for the squires who acquitted themselves well in battle, and myself to be included among their ranks. To lift the men's spirits, he said."

"There's merit to his words. Of course, _who _ought to knight you is an honor you should not bestow lightly."

_A pity Lelouch isn't a knight_, Aerys thought. "Ser Gerold had been Lelouch's suggestion, but if he's to lead us into battle, the honor might be better given to someone else." _The Lannisters fended off the attack well and suffered the fewest casualties… some fifteen hundred men dead or injured. _"Tywin Lannister had no small part in saving us from total defeat. His cavalry broke the Golden Company's phalanx that would've split the camp in half."

"A fine choice," Uncle said.

It wouldn't do to leave Lelouch out of this, lest he be slighted. "I will be knighted first," Aerys said. "And once has come to pass, I shall knight Lelouch myself."

Uncle smiled. "You will make a good king one day. Now, help a wounded man stand? We've a council to attend to."

No tent could possibly have fit all the lords attending, and so four long trestle tables had been arranged in a broken square with a canopy to provide relief from the howling winds. Lelouch Velaryon was already seated on the western bench, surrounded by Lords Wendwater, Stokesworth, Rosby, and Bar Emmon.

_That we name him their commander is but formality,_ Aerys realized. _There is little doubt among the lords with whom power rested._

The stormlanders filtered in next, taking up the bench opposite the crownlanders. He spotted many second sons among them, and still great gaps appeared between the noble houses sworn to his uncle. They'd suffered two thousand losses, but it was different actually _seeing _it.

As for the Reach, one could hardly tell they'd suffered losses at all. Twenty-five hundred men, many of them knights and lords, had fallen, but still they remained the most numerous of all the hosts. Even the westerlands that began the campaign second to the Reach and suffered the least losses so far could not match their numbers.

The least contentious matters were covered first. Aerys announced that the squires would stand vigil tonight and the ceremony would take place the next morning to polite cheers. Lelouch Velaryon's ascension was met with some grumbling about overeager youths from the older Reach lords drowned out by _loud _cheering from the crownlands. Last was Uncle Ormund handing over the reins of the campaign to Ser Gerold.

"The Old Mother's fleet has been menacing the great trade lanes of Westeros," Ser Gerold said. "It has begun to bleed our realm dry. I intend to see this threat off immediately by occupying the whole of the Stepstones. Let there be no shelter given to pirates in service to Maelys Blackfyre!"

It was a roundabout means to speak of their withdrawal without _mentioning _the word. To speak of retreat as his first act would have men murmur of his cowardice even if it came about through no fault of his own.

Ser Gerold continued to speak for some length about matters of logistics and the order through which retreat would be conducted. The Iron Fleet and other ships sworn to Greyjoy were being recalled, more men were to begin muster back in Westeros, and provisions for the coming months arranged.

The council was convened, and Aerys returned to his tent to prepare for the vigil with a cleansing bath and a fast.

Nightfall saw a procession of squires headed for the makeshift sept where the septons would hear their confessions. It was no accident that Aerys and Lelouch were first in line, though his friend took far longer with his absolutions. Nearly a sixth squire had finished before Lelouch came to stand beside him.

"What does knighthood mean to you?" Aerys asked.

"Do you know the words we'll utter come morning? All of them?" Lelouch asked instead of answering.

"Be brave, be just, defend the young and innocent, protect all women," Aerys recited.

"That's only four out of seven," Lelouch said.

Aerys frowned. "There's more?"

"Be discerning in thought and deed, be obedient, and to hold true to your vows," Lelouch said. "Seven gods, seven vows. A lot of promises, isn't it?"

Aerys nodded.

"What's the point of it all if no one can keep all of them?" Lelouch asked.

"Are you saying there are no true knights?"

"I'm saying there are no perfect knights," Lelouch said. "If knighthood was about doing no wrong, we'd have no knights left to speak of. All men err eventually."

Surely he was mistaken. The stories… the stories were wrong about war, weren't they? What else were they wrong about.

"Knighthood," Lelouch continued, "is striving towards an ideal. We might never be perfect, but there is value in the journey towards perfection, in the struggle to do good in an imperfect world."

So Aerys listened as he spoke—about justice and rightness, about the ways the vows might contradict each other, about striving to be _more_. About striving to be _better_. And Aerys listened, because though the stories were wrong, Lelouch's stories were songs to him.

When dawn came, Tywin spoke the words and tapped his shoulders and he rose a knight.

"In the name of the Warrior I charge you to be brave," Aerys said, resting his blade on Lelouch's right shoulder. "In the name of the Father I charge you to be just. In the name of the Mother I charge you to defend the young and innocent. In the name of the Maiden I charge you to protect all women." His sword moved to the other shoulder with each uttered sentence.

"In the name of the Crone I charge you to be discerning in thought and deed. In the name of the Smith I charge you to be obedient. In the name of the Stranger, I charge you to hold true to your vows from this day to the end of your days." Aerys paused.

"I will hold to my vows," Lelouch said.

Aerys nodded, and struck him lightly. "Let this be the last blow you receive unanswered. Rise a knight, Ser Lelouch Velaryon."

**-ZeroRequiem-**

Alequo Adarys stopped walking, turning his eyes to the flow of men around the Daric Bank's towering marble columns which depicted famous scenes from Myrish history.

"Is something the matter?" Lashare asked.

"No," Alequo said. "I'm merely admiring the craftsmanship of your people. They don't make them like this anywhere else."

Lashare smiled. "Your words are sweet, but I'm sure an ex-officer for the Iron Bank has witnessed far finer things."

Flattery was a subtle art. The trick, which oh so _many_ people missed, was to appear genuine. If you were caught in a lie, outright denial would only dig a deeper pit. But deflection? Deflection was another story. "You've done your research. I haven't worked for them in decades, and I grew my name only after I'd left," Alequo said.

"I did my due diligence," Lashare said, looking mighty pleased with himself.

"So the Daric Bank, or is it the Sailor's Bank of Myr now?"

"It was unseemly to keep it named after a traitor," Lashare said.

_Magister Parazhar was no traitor to the city_, Alequo thought. He'd done business with the man once or twice, and lacked the capacity. Too conservative a soul. It's why his family's bank could never rival the Iron Bank or even the Rogare Bank… though the latter had gone bankrupt and the Daric Bank remained in good standing, if under new management.

"Prudent of you," Alequo said. "Your evidence was quite compelling if the aftermath is anything to go by." Lashare had learned the lessons of the Iron Bank well: the first step of any venture, whether a market or military takeover, was to secure funding.

"How was your trip to Volantis?"

"Might we step away from the wind first? Even warm winters can cause a chill if you're not careful," Alequo said.

"Of course, follow me," Lashare said, leading them to a shaded side alley where the wind didn't reach. Their armed escorts moved to secure a perimeter and evict any eavesdroppers. "Was an agreement reached with the triarchs?"

Alequo nodded. "They're most displeased with Westeros and their Sacred Struggle. The tigers and elephants both see it as a threat, if you can believe it." The two parties often opposed each other on principle. "But I suppose it was to be expected once they heard of freed slaves. Myr, Lys, and Tyrosh are some of their largest markets in the slave trade, and the tigers see any encroachment save theirs as a danger."

"Should I expect to see Unsullied or lesser soldiery among Maelys' troops soon then?"

"Eventually, perhaps if the sunsetlanders see more success," Alequo said. "For now, they're wary, but content to watch. They will pledge their honors against the sunsetlanders instead. I suspect Braavos might respond once they hear of this." And they would, with how wide their webs were.

"Not with armed men," Lashare said.

"No, that would be an escalation, but they've other means of applying pressure should they wish to."

"If Volantis begins funding Maelys, your use to him is diminished."

"If you don't send him any aid, your use to him will be non-existent," Alequo retorted. Not that he could blame the man. He'd won his prize already, so why risk it when there was nothing more to be gained?

Lashare smiled. "Ah, but I've a Dothraki horde outside my walls! I couldn't possibly leave his flank unguarded."

That much, at least, was true. It was a lesser khalasar though, and could be quickly and cheaply paid off if Lashare wished it. "Do you not have the means to pay them off?"

"I do, but the tribute I had in mind is not in Myr at the moment. I've had to have the men brought here," Lashare said. "Some exotic new slaves… I'm sure Khal Yaggo will be pleased."

"You should know that Maelys is not pleased with how you delay," Alequo said.

"His feelings only matter if he remains alive to act on them," Lashare said. "It may take awhile, but he'll meet his end one way or another."

"You don't think he'll succeed."

"Do you?" Lashare asked instead of answering.

_No_, Alequo thought. The numbers simply didn't add up. How could ten thousand overcome five hundred thousand? Everything the Iron Bank taught him screamed this was a losing gamble.

"Your silence speaks volumes, Alequo. Once you are back on that island of yours, Maelys cannot threaten you."

But Maelys _could_. Not directly, but Tyrosh was dependent on its hinterland to feed its populace like any other Free City. Alequo remained quiet.

"Do you think the Westerosi will look kindly on you if you continue your support for their enemies?" Lashare asked. "He'll be the doom of all of us. Better he die sooner rather than later."

"He'll be the doom of _you _maybe_,_" Alequo said finally. "Storms come and go. The sharks eat the fish and the tigers have their lambs. Tyrosh remains standing all the same. I've a boat to board."

"It's a shame we could not see eye to eye," Lashare said. "Safe travels."

_I will survive you. I will survive all of you, no matter what._


	18. Signals

**Chapter 18: Signals**

Tywin stooped over the cyvasse board. Finally, he urged his dragon token forward over a mountain tile and deep into Lelouch's side of the board. "Death."

Lelouch captured it without blinking. As he expected, Tywin moved his light horse forward, again threatening to capture his king.

"Death," Tywin repeated.

What followed would be a series of bloody exchanges, but Lelouch would come out with a slightly better position, even if he was down a few pieces. "I saw the silent sisters cut out Emmon Frey's heart this morning," Lelouch said.

"His bones will be returned to his family, but his heart shall remain part of our Sacred Struggle," Tywin said as he removed a black spearman from the board. "He'll be shipped off with the others in a week's time. Will you be going with the crownlanders to see the bodies off?"

With Blackfyre's allies menacing the narrow sea, those were the only two ports relatively safe at the moment. The fallen highborn hailing from the Reach, and the stormlands were being shipped off to Weeping Town along Cape Wrath.

"I will," Lelouch said. There was little to do but wait in the days following their withdrawal to Bloodstone.

Besides, he had his own bodies to deliver other than Lord Chaseman's. Most of the other lords had opted to hold a mass burial for their levies in Essos, but he'd not been among their number. To be left in a hole dug from foreign soil… it felt poor recompense to those men who'd saved them from utter defeat. The least he could do was bring their bones to Driftmark, back to their families, and while he was there he might as well pay his respects to the other crownland lords who now would fight under him.

Lelouch maneuvered his own dragon into the heart of his formation with nary a trebuchet in range. "Death in three."

"Agreed," Tywin said, eyes remaining alight. "Shall we go another round?"

"I won't turn down another chance at pummeling you," Lelouch said as he placed down the screen to divide the board and obscure their initial setups from each other.

"Because that's such a feat when I've only been playing for a few days," Tywin said with a roll of his eyes. "I hear Lord Baratheon's to be given a command once he returns from Weeping Town with freshly raised levies."

He needed a chance to redeem himself or his vassals would chafe. Lelouch had argued as much when he'd met with Ser Gerold and Prince Aerys in private counsel. "Should all go according to plan, his return will coincide with Prince Lewyn and Lord Stark's pacification of the Veiled Isle. They'll collapse on the Grey Gallows while Ser Gerold leads the rest of the lords towards Scarwood."

That would bring the entirety of the northern Stepstones under their control with the exception of Tyrosh's outpost in Pryr. The five islands that composed the southern Stepstones would be brought to heel afterwards, though details on that were sparse at the moment.

"The Dornish must be _ecstatic_, having to take orders from a stormlander just when they thought themselves free from that yoke," Tywin said with a hint of a smile.

"Having a reachman in charge is hardly any better in their eyes," Lelouch said. "It's why Ser Gerold sent them to take the Veiled Isle."

Named for the frequent fogs and mists that descended on it, the Veiled Isle was the second largest of the Stepstones' fourteen major islands, and at various points in history had even paid homage to Sunspear given its proximity. It would not be the first time a Dornish prince petitioned to have it brought under the fold of the Seven Kingdoms. As luck would have it, they were on a protracted campaign where leaving it unoccupied was a critical vulnerability to their supply lines.

"What of Blackfyre then?" Tywin asked, switching around a few of his pieces and tiles. "He could very well strike at our flank while we drive out the pirates."

"Not without a fleet, and none of those have been spotted anywhere near him," Lelouch said. The vigorous "patrols" of the privateers and the ironborn reported no major movements at sea from either Tyrosh or the southern Stepstones, where they suspected Old Mother to be basing her raids from. "If they try anything, our eastern garrisons will buy us ample time to muster for a counteroffensive."

Tywin nodded. "Ready to begin?"

Lelouch removed the divider and took a moment to study the Lannister's unbalanced formation. His center was held by spearmen, trebuchets, and crossbows—an orthodox enough of a composition, but it was his left wing that gave Lelouch pause. Nothing but rabble there, while his right teemed with the most mobile of units.

It smelled of a trap, and the rabble were bait.

"I give you the first move," Lelouch said.

"What have you been tasked with while the pirates are pacified?" Tywin asked.

"What makes you think I've been deemed important enough?" Lelouch asked.

Tywin snorted as he pushed his spear to crush Lelouch's forays into a river tile. "Are we pretending that your star has not been on the rise since the Battle of Naqes?" Tywin asked. "It has not slipped my notice that your tent has been an unceasing host to many lords these past nights. What reason for that if you're to meekly follow Lord Commander Hightower?"

"To ply them with wine in the hopes of securing myself a fair maiden?"

"Lord Buckwell has no daughters, and the Massey girl has crooked teeth," said Tywin dryly. "When we've won, you'll have your pick from Old Town to Winterfell."

"I'm to stay alive with half my ships. Too important to die, I'm told," Lelouch said, letting him work the rest out while he repositioned his elephant atop a hill.

"They want half your fleet to help convoy the main offensives," Tywin said, pausing for a moment to consider the implications.

Lelouch tilted his head in assent. "I've some eighty-five hundred men altogether, if you include my auxiliaries. Hardly enough to man ninety ships. I won't have much use for cogs anyway."

"But with only half… they can't mean for you to challenge the Tyroshi navy. They want you to pin it down, keeping it occupied so long as you've a force at sea that could threaten their city."

"And if the opportunity should present itself, seize or deny their harbor at Pryr," Lelouch said, glancing at the clouds and making a quick mental note of their coloring. "It shouldn't be a problem so long as I don't fall prey to the winter storms or take an unfavorable engagement." _And I'll finally be able to move as I please._

"I don't suppose they'll lend you some more alchemists?" Tywin asked.

Lelouch shook his head. "Setting things on fire has become a rather bad habit of mine. I've been trying to curb it."

The days passed slowly. The silent sisters continued to work tirelessly in the drab grey cowls to prepare the bodies for the voyage home, but there was not a house from the affected regions who didn't have some father or cousin or son brought low. There were hundreds of dead and only a handful of sisters.

Lelouch had ordered his dead smallfolk be stuffed in sealed barrels and sent off in advance on a fast cog as soon as the weather permitted. He didn't need more men falling ill, or the stench of the dead. Lelouch almost wished the winter was colder, so the bodies would freeze instead of slowly bake.

It was another week before of cloud watching before Lelouch finally departed with the bodies bound for Duskendale. He left his cousin Kiren's uncle, Lord Dylar Wendwater, in command while Captain Bluebeard and Lord Wells served as his advisors. Given the good will between them since Lelouch last visited Waterflow Keep and their familial ties, there was little chance Lord Dylar would usurp or undermine his authority.

That Dylar might lose his fleet to a storm or battle was even less likely. The man was not overly fond of risk, and wouldn't surprise him pleasantly or otherwise.

What did surprise Lelouch was Tywin's presence besides the embalmed corpse of Emmon Frey on the _Seafyre. _

"I didn't think you liked him enough to go through the trouble of accompanying his body," Lelouch said.

"I like him more now," Tywin said, amusement dancing in his pale green eyes flecked with gold.

_Dead, that is_, Lelouch finished in his head.

"Besides," Tywin continued, "he was married to a _Lannister_. That means something, even if he didn't."

"Just as well that you came. My cousin Donnall doesn't quite pose the challenge you do in cyvasse, and a week passes slowly on a ship."

"Cloud watching not doing it for you anymore?" Tywin drawled.

"I don't do that for pleasure," Lelouch said and left it at that.

As they sat down for a game, Tywin said, "My sister will be coming to Duskendale. If we should get the chance, I'd like to introduce you to her."

"I'd be delighted," Lelouch said.

It was a clever move from the Lannsiters if they sought to delay her from being wed to another of Lord Walder's sons or grandsons. It would be most improper for a grieving widow to be betrothed when her husband's body was not even six feet deep.

**-ZeroRequiem-**

There were Seven Kingdoms before Aegon the Conqueror unified Westeros, but for a time the Darklyns were a close eighth with their power reaching as far as Crackclaw Point and enveloping nearly the whole of the crownlands. It was from this large port town off the coast of Blackwater Bay that House Darklyn ruled.

Even now, with the loss of its lord and levies, it was a mistake to think Duskendale _weak_. Guardsmen wielding spears and wearing chainmail hauberk patrolled the strong walls and cobbled streets of the town.

The new Lord of Duskendale was Denys Darklyn, a fresh-faced youth of fifteen years. Young and inexperienced and not particularly remarkable, Lelouch did not doubt that in the coming years, he'd be his chief competitor to preeminence in the crownlands, their Targaryen overlords aside. Duskendale housed enough people to be called a city, if only the Iron Throne would grant them a charter. That afforded them the men and the coin to shrug off losses a lesser house would find ruinous.

"We thank you for your hospitality, Lord Denys," Lelouch said as he ate the bread and salt. "I'm sorry for the loss of your father. He was a fine man, and brave beyond doubt."

"Thank you, Lord Lelouch," Denys said meekly. "Be welcome to Duskendale. We've a feast prepared for tonight, to honor the fallen. Would my lords be so kind as to join me at the high table?"

"Certainly," Tywin said. "Has my sister arrived perchance?"

Denys' ears turned red. "Lady Genna arrived last night, and Lord Walder the night before last. If my lords would follow me to the castle."

Overlooking the port was the Dun Fort, a squat square stone castle with big drum towers. From that height, Lelouch imagined a trained bowman could rain seven hells on any man coming by sea.

In the castle's courtyard waited a woman who shared Tywin's golden hair. Where Joanna was slender, Genna was shapely, and the tight fitting bodice that struggled against her chest suited her well. She looked every bit the grieving widow in a fine black woolen dress that was more at home in the riverlands than on her. On another occasion, it would have been scandalous for a Lannister to be seen wearing something so cheap.

But here and now? It was perfect.

Besides her was a balding man in his early fifties. There was something of the vulture about Lord Walder Frey, and rather more of the weasel.

_So it begins_, Lelouch thought as Tywin and Walder locked eyes. Denys had wisely made himself scarce.

"I see you've roused yourself from your seat," Tywin said with visible contempt.

"My son is dead," Walder said. "He went to fight in your war."

"It was the king's war, my lord, and Ser Emmon fought with distinction while with Lord Tywin. He was part of the charge that checked the Golden Company's advance," Lelouch said.

"Was he now? I always knew he'd make a fine knight, Emmon," Walder said unconvincingly. The man raked him over with his eyes. "Who might you be?"

"Lelouch Velaryon," Genna answered. "The master of ship's son and heir, and newly risen commander of the crownland levies. Do your sons not write to you of news from the front, good-father?"

Walder ignored her. "Heh, a commander are you? I've sons old enough to be your father."

"A shame none of them were chosen to lead then. Perhaps if they'd had more than a hundred swords to their name," Lelouch said with a smile.

"A hundred is plenty. Will turning more boys into corpses help us any?" Walder asked, before turning to Tywin. "My son is dead."

"You've a dozen more."

"Aye, a dozen more, and none of them with a Lannister wife," Walder said.

"My father has no more daughters to offer the likes of you," Tywin said, narrowing his eyes.

Walder tilted his head towards Genna. "I'm not asking for another daughter. Heh, this one's still young. She'll do fine by my boy Aenys."

"My sister is grieving. It would be improper to wed her off so soon," Tywin said.

"Grieving, is she?" Walder asked, peering at Genna's face or perhaps at her ample bosom. It was difficult to say with his eyes angled as they were.

"Oh yes, my lord," Genna said, her eyes watering. "I've grown ever so fond of Emmon."

_Grown fond like Tywin had?_ Lelouch thought. But could anyone say she was not grieving after she'd travelled hundreds of miles to see the body off, dressed in clothes lowly for a Lanniser?

"Did you now? You'll grow fond of another of my son's then. Nothing like a good lay to make your forget about the dead."

"You would know best, my lord," Genna said with a thoughtful look. "Only not so soon. It wouldn't be right to forget dear Emmon so quickly after his passing."

"Not so soon, but you might come visit your poor good-father at the Twins. We'll grieve him together, like family should. You never did get to meet all your good-brothers and nephews, heh."

"I'd be delighted to meet them at Casterly Rock. I've grown terribly used to my luxuries, I'm afraid," Genna answered. "I'm sure father won't mind me having a few guests."

"He most certainly won't," Tywin said, resting a hand on the pommel of his sword. "In fact, it might even be arranged before I depart. I've the men to spare for an escort."

"Hmph. That won't be necessary," Walder said before hobbling off.

Once he was out of earshot, Genna sighed and hugged her brother. "Speaking to that man is exhausting."

"You did well," Tywin said, returning her embrace.

Genna pulled away and looked at Lelouch. Offering her hand to him, she said, "I suppose I should thank you for taking such good care of my brother, Lord Lelouch. He tells me you've been a steadfast companion of his."

"If we're keeping track, he did save my life," Lelouch said, before bringing the back of her smooth hand to his lips. "It's my pleasure to meet you, Lady Genna."

"If you'll both excuse me, I must take my leave and prepare for tonight's feast," Tywin said, leaving the two of them be.

She extricated her hand from his. "You've made quite a name for yourself."

"You have me at a disadvantage, my lady. I fear Tywin has spoken more about me than you," Lelouch said.

"Well of course, it's important to keep in touch with family. Haven't you a brother to write to you?" she asked.

"No, not one that knows you."

"Neither do I."

_A brother that knows you or that writes to you? _Tywin was only ten when his father had sent him to King's Landing for speaking out against the same marriage they'd nipped. Lelouch thought of Corwyn, and how little he'd seen of him after he was sent to squire. Now nearly a man grown and he was more at ease on a horse with lance in hand than on a ship.

_Had he ever really known me though? Who I used to be in my dreams? _"I know how that feels," Lelouch said.

"Don't mistake my words, I do love him." Genna Lannister wielded her courtesies like Tywin his armor, but in that moment she seemed uncertain. Vulnerable. "Every little girl needs a big brother to protect her, and Tywin was big even when he was little."

He thought of Alarra, and grimaced. "I hope to see you at the feast tonight."

"I don't imagine the high table will be large enough to hide us from each other," she answered.

As they parted ways, Lelouch was led to his own room by the manservants Denys had tasked to wait on him. His was a snug apartment, but richly decorated with a Myrish carpet and exquisite Qohorik wood carvings. The window by the southern wall overlooked the courtyard. All throughout the afternoon women, girls, and young boys continued to trickle in from Claw Isle to Hayford.

As the sun set, he found himself in the Great Hall of Dun Fort, a spacious room fit to host the lords and ladies of two whole regions. Tywin he spotted further down the table, pointedly ignoring old Walder seated next to him. Behind the high table hung the banners of all the houses in attendance, and most prominent of all was the black-and-yellow diamonds besides seven white shields on a strip of red.

"The argent shields are to honor the Darkrobin," Denys explained to Genna as a freshly baked white sweetloaf fit for the king's table was served alongside a chicken stuffed with grapes, leeks, and a dozen other spices, "and all those in my family that followed after him. No other house has had as many sons serve in the Kingsguard."

"How splendid," Genna said. "Wouldn't you agree, Lord Lelouch?"

Abruptly, he swallowed a slice of venison tenderloin that went surprisingly well with the custard tart colored a bright saffron yellow. "House Darklyn's service to the Iron Throne is most commendable."

Denys beamed at him. "Your own prowess on the field have reached my ears, my lord. You simply must share some of your stories. If not for the war, I would almost wish a storm come to pass just so we could keep you longer."

"A storm?" Genna asked. "I thought the narrow sea was calmer during the winter as opposed to the fall?"

"In a few months when spring arrives, it will be smooth enough to rock a cradle," Lelouch said. "But winter storms are always fierce, and winter has not yet wholly let go. This late into the season, some will still form."

"Then Lord Denys has the right of it. Perhaps you might recount one of your fights for us," Genna said.

"Like the Battle of Seafyre," Denys said earnestly. "Maester Derek tells me it is one of the greatest victories at sea in history."

Lelouch sipped his Arbor Gold, and cleared his throat. "I wouldn't want to bore my lady with the details."

"Oh, far from it. Spare no details, I'd be delighted to hear your account," she said.

Nevertheless, Lelouch did his best summarizing the battle with Samarro Saan and the Tyroshi. A comprehensive after action report filled with supply counts and maneuvering would be lost on them and seem quite dull. As he finished, he said, "If I'm being honest, it involved a lot of waiting."

"Waiting?" Denys asked with a frown.

Lelouch nodded. "Waiting to set up camps and siegeworks. Marching, which is really just walking while waiting to get to the battlefield. Waiting for the right moment to strike. All battles involve waiting, and wars even more so."

"Well," Genna said, pursing her lips, "I should hope this war with Blackfyre doesn't take too long."

The longer Tywin was away, the more likely their father would accede to Walder Frey's demands of her. "Fear not," Lelouch said. "Our enemies will not be allowed to seize either you or the Iron Throne."

She locked eyes with Lelouch. "It's not that I'm afraid we'll lose. _I_ just hate to be kept waiting."

Denys' eyes bounced between the two of them, suspecting he was missing something but not quite catching on.

"You've a toast to give, my lord," Lelouch said.

"And the dance right afterwards," Genna added, her eyes never leaving his.

"Yes, yes, of course," he said, pushing back his chair with a creak and standing up. "My lords and ladies, a moment of silence to honor our fallen."

And when the moment passed, Denys lifted his goblet. "To our valiant dead! May the Seven watch over them, and to House Targaryen!"

"To our valiant dead, and to House Targaryen!" the crowd repeated.

That was as solemn as the night got as lyres, harps, and drums began playing. It was a feast after all, not a funeral.

Lelouch walked over to Genna. "May I have this dance, my lady?"

"Certainly," Genna said, and off they went. "You know, my cousin speaks fondly of you."

"I'm afraid my father would be displeased if I took Lady Joanna as my wife. He has certain ambitions," Lelouch said.

"Your heart's set on a royal match," Genna said. "I can hardly fault you for that. Princess Rhaella is a great beauty."

Lelouch twirled her around, then locked eyes with her. "It's not _her_ beauty that interests me."

"Really?" she grinned impishly. "Is there another _Targaryen_ beauty you've your eye on?"

_Someone's been gossiping with Joanna. _"In any case," Lelouch said, refusing to dignify the jab with an answer, "should a royal match not be forthcoming, my father would still not entirely approve of Lady Joanna."

Her eyes flashed with that dangerous Lannister pride. "Because she's not important enough?"

"Because she lacks that quality all men look for in a wife."

An eyebrow was raised imperiously. "And that is?'

Lelouch leaned in so close his every breath must have tickled her ears. "She doesn't quite have your ample… dowry."

She laughed, and it was not unpleasant to listen to. "I have a secret of my own to share."

Lelouch cocked his brow as he pulled back.

"I've lived a Frey since I flowered at thirteen," she began, "not that he was ever man enough to take it. But after only three years, it does come as a shock to find yourself a widow." It was her turn to lean in close. "The truth is: I came here to make sure." Genna pulled back and offered him a dazzling smile as dangerous as any sword. "And everything that that entails."

As they finished their lap around the floor, he bowed politely. "Thank you for the dance."

"You didn't step on my toes at least. I'd say you and I are quite evenly matched."

"Men who pay their footwork no mind don't come to feasts like this. They just get mentioned in one," Lelouch said.

"See that you keep minding your footwork then," Genna said. "I prefer the men I honor living."

"I shan't disappoint, my lady."

When they returned to their seats, she shared a look with her brother—a conversation passing between them neither would give voice to—but from the faint tug on the corner of her lips to the twinkle in her eyes that made them shine like emeralds, it seemed she approved.

**-ZeroRequiem-**

His fleet of four had carried seventy odd highborn corpses to Duskendale. Tywin had already seen to the orderly distribution for those of his people, but that still left over two-thirds of the coffins and barrels for Lelouch to deal with.

The stench would have been unbearable if the silent sisters had not boiled the flesh off the bones and preserved the organs with salt like you would meat. Their hearts were left on Bloodstone to continue the struggle against slavery, while their entrails were disposed of as quickly as could be.

"Thank you, Ser Lelouch. You are a true knight," said the sniffling and plump Lady Langward as he praised her husband's valor and skill at arms. "May the Seven bless you. House Langward will keep faith with the Targaryens as you bring that monster to heel."

"Seven willing," Lelouch replied. _Ser_ she'd called him, as had over half of those he'd spoken to that morning.

Besides him, Donnall shifted his weight between his feet. "Is that the last of them?" he asked.

"Should be," Lelouch said. "We'll make a quick stop at Driftmark before we return to Bloodstone. Magister Zoutos has business to oversee, and he's content with the commitment Westeros has shown so far."

Donnall nodded. "Omorfia did a fine job running things from King's Landing, but she's not her grandfather. Not yet."

He hadn't known his cousin had taken an interest in the Myrish girl. "Developed an eye for coin counting have you?"

"I had to after watching you spend all of yours feeding the peasants for all these years."

As they returned to the _Seafyre_, Zoutos and Tywin met them with sombre looks.

"What news?" Lelouch asked.

Tywin handed him a letter, slightly damp and smelling of salt. It must have been flown by raven from the Stepstones—a method left only for the most pressing news given the ravens were not trained to return to the pirate-infested islands. _But all the ravens fly to King's Landing_, Lelouch thought as he unfurled the letter, which meant it had been forwarded to them specifically.

That could only mean orders, and urgent ones.

"We were wrong," Tywin said. "Blackfyre did not slaughter _all_ the knights the Reach had sent after him."

Lelouch's mind was whirling as he kept reading. "Prisoners released on a promise that they would not take up arms against him for a period of five years, and deliver messages on his behalf." Promises that the knights would carry out, or see their Lords Mullendore, Shermer, and Osgrey killed for their faithlessness.

A threat few knights would dare test, especially against the likes of Maelys Blackfyre.

"Ser Gerold bids us both return posthaste," Tywin said.

Lelouch nodded. "Magister Zoutos, I had hoped to deliver you to Dirftmark myself, but I'm afraid this is where we must part ways. If you bring yourself aboard the _Westerwind_, Captain Lyn will see you there safely."

"It is of little consequence," Zoutos said. "A ship is a ship."

"You'll convey my orders to Ser Hughes?" Lelouch asked.

"Regarding the dead and the dyers and the drums, I remember," Zoutos said.

"It's clear what Blackfyre is after," Tywin said as the magister left and the _Seafyre_ set sail. "He needs allies, and safe ports to land in."

The Battle of Naqes was a bloody blow to Westeros, but Blackfyre couldn't just sit around and wait things out. His was a war to _seize _the Iron Throne, and so long as the war was fought in Essos, he could not truly win. Yet…

"The Blackfyre cause has seen their friends dwindle with each failed uprising. No lords raised their banners for them during the Fourth Rebellion save the Yronwoods," Lelouch said.

_Blackfyre is no fool_. _He has to know that, and while Maelys is feared and respected, he is not loved even by his own men. _

"It's about being seen to do so," Lelouch mused.

"To sow distrust?" Tywin asked.

"And to keep our eyes elsewhere," Lelouch said. "While we decide who amongst us can be trusted and watch the southern ports with suspicion, he may well decide to land his army at Crackclaw Point or Massey's Hook. The Golden Company could be battering down the gates of King's Landing within a fortnight from either location."

Before Naqes, it would have been unfeasible for Maelys' allies, the ones with all the ships, to go through with such an audacious plan with sixty thousand armed and armored men breathing down their necks. That was no longer the case. Now there were only fifty thousand men, and they'd been forced back to the Stepstones. It was still a gambit, but an acceptable one now, for if the Golden Company set foot on Westeros, no further Westerosi armies would set foot on Essos.

It suddenly made perfect sense why Blackfyre had kept Old Mother's fleets to the south and the Tyroshi navy to the north. They'd have no way of knowing from which direction his landing would come from once the winter storms passed—a reprieve of maybe two months with any luck. Until then, the waters north of the Stepstones would be denied to any large fleet attempting to a full crossing.

"We can't pull back the army either," Tywin said. "To give up everything we've gained because of an army that hasn't landed… it would be seen as weakness."

_And House Targaryen seems weak enough after Summerhall. _It's why the war had to be fought on Essos in the first place. "Agreed. If we pull back, Maelys will have ample time to secure Lys and the Stepstones unopposed."

The last time the might of three Free Cities and their hinterlands were united, the Triarchy had burned down Spice Town, sacked High Tide, and nearly brought ruin to the Targaryens and their dragons. It had taken infighting _and _a coalition of Braavos, Pentos, and Lorath to bring them down. That wasn't like to happen anytime soon with Pentos defanged, and Lorath joining hands with Norvos and Qohor.

Three Free Cities… Maelys might hire enough Free Companies to match them man for man at last, if they allowed him the time.

As Duskendale disappeared behind them, Lelouch stared at the clouds in thought.


	19. Storms

**Chapter 19: Storms**

Corwyn was unmistakably a Velaryon, even from a distance. He possessed the classic Valyrian purple eyes and silver hair, not unlike Aerys, but for a boy of fifteen Corwyn was tall with well-defined calves from many hours of hard riding where Aerys was leaner, more graceful.

It was not by any means difficult for Lelouch to spot his brother among the throng of people awaiting his arrival. Strange, but stranger still was Lord Leyton's absence. He couldn't remember a moment since the campaign officially began that the squire was not besides the lord and knight.

"What word from Lord Leyton?" Lelouch asked.

"He sent me, but not to deliver a message," Corwyn said, hesitating.

"He sent you from his side to fight with us instead?" Lelouch asked with a frown.

Corwyn nodded glumly. "To protect me, he said. I don't know if you've heard about what Blackfyre's done."

"The knights he released and their messages," Lelouch said. "Is House Hightower under suspicion?" It was wise of Leyton to send him away. At a time like this, the taint of suspicion was a plague that spread through association.

"Not them specifically. The whole of the Reach is, alongside the Yronwoods, the Tarbecks, any of the houses that sided with the Blackfyres during the First Rebellion really," Corwyn said. "Swords were nearly drawn when the new Lord Caron pointed out the Reach had suffered few losses initially during the Battle of Naqes, and that only a fool or a traitor would've ordered a charge unsupported into the Golden Company's lines."

"Lord Caron has grown a sharp tongue since his father's death," Lelouch said. The hatred between the Marcher lords, the Reachermen, and the Dornish was a deep and old one, from when a hundred men still claimed kingship. Time had mended those wounds some, but they were not forgotten at times like this. "Still, if there's any good to be had from this, it heartens me to have you at my side in the battles to come."

"There is that," Corwyn said.

As they reached the camp's edge, he spotted but a handful of the stormland banners fluttering by those of the Reach and Dorne, like daffodils swaying in the grasslands and desert. _Far too few,_ Lelouch thought, _and the banners from the other regions here are too many if they'd begun pacifying the other islands already_.

"Has anything else occurred while I was away?" Lelouch asked. "The eastern islands, do they remain in our hands?"

"Prince Lewyn returned from the Veiled Isle, and Maelys has made no move against us since Naqes," Corwyn said. "We've not seen him or any of his allies along the coast of Essos we patrol."

Nor had anyone caught sight of Lashare went unsaid. Lelouch was certain the sellsword would have showed himself by now… had something happened at Myr to cause delay? It would be most unfortunate—Lashare would be easier to defeat on the field than behind Myr's high walls. Plans would have to be made to take the city after Tyrosh was brought to heel.

As for Maelys, most of the northern and southern beaches remained available to him. He could have marched either way in the past fortnight, while their own host had been crippled by mistrust.

Cyvasse would never come close to real war, but even in that… simplification there were three factors even a Volantene novice recognized as critical to the eventual victor of any position. Space: how much land was controlled by your side and their strategic value. Force: the quantity and quality of men you could bring to bear. Time: the most important, most elusive aspect of the three which governed the momentum of armies and the rhythm of war.

They were wasting the last by the barrowful, and it ought to be a crime. The Redgrass Field had shown even an hour's worth of delay could be the difference in war. Had Bloodraven been even a fraction slower, and Lelouch might today be serving under Maelys Blackfyre to crush Aerys Targaryen.

Hopefully not for much longer though. A knight with a mermaid on his shield found him soon after with instructions from Aerys for a war council.

Baratheon's seat, to Aerys' left now, was filled by Steffon.

It shouldn't have taken Baratheon this long to arrive with his reinforcements considering how much closer the stormlands were.

"King Jaehaerys recognizes the threat Blackfyre poses if he lands on Westeros," Gerold said, "and there are too many ports for us to cover while continuing to prosecute a war on foreign soil. Nor do we have, at this moment, sufficient naval dominance to negate the risks of his crossing."

"What then? Retreat?" Quellon Greyjoy scoffed.

"That would merely delay his crossing, but it would leave him dangerously free to do as he pleases in Essos," Gerold said. "No, the king has a different solution in mind. He has ordered Lord Baratheon to remain in King's Landing and raise a new host from the stormlands, the riverlands, and the Vale."

There was no other choice really. The crownlands had committed and lost too many men already, and if the situation ever grew desperate they could be rallied quickly to King's Landing. The Reach was currently mistrusted, and Dorne had always been distrusted. The westerlands had a weak enough Lord Paramount in Tytos Lannister, and to weaken him further might invite yet another rebellion the crown would inevitably have to get involved in. As for the North, Lelouch doubted a Sacred Struggle was all that popular to the followers of the Old Gods.

The new levies would stiffen the miserable gold cloaks in the event Maelys did manage to land, though they likely wouldn't see much in the way of reinforcements. Could they win with merely fifty thousand men? Maybe, if the Golden Company didn't get the chance to defeat them in detail.

"How many men?" Jason Lannister asked.

"Two thousand from each region, with Lords Baratheon and Royce in command," Jon Arryn said. "If we count the City Watch, eight thousand men altogether. More than enough to man the walls in case of a siege."

"Blackfyre's elephants won't do much good when our men have stone walls," Rickard Stark added.

"Not that we've seen them," Hoster Tully said.

"I wouldn't be in a hurry to face them in the field," Lewyn Martell said, leaning back into his chair.

"Have you seen them before?" Aerys asked.

Lewyn nodded. "Years ago, when I had served with the Shellshield Spears. They use them to scatter formations, panic the men, even as mobile platforms to rain javelins and arrows from."

"If they're so effective, why haven't they been widely adopted in these lands?" asked Rickard.

"They're expensive to acquire, to feed, to train. If mishandled or startled, the beasts can cause as much havoc within your own ranks as that of the enemy's. It's a risk not many are willing to take on," Lewyn said.

"Does the garrison at King's Landing mean our campaign might proceed as planned?" Lelouch asked.

"With some minor alterations," Gerold said.

The plan remained mostly intact as far as Lelouch was concerned. His independent command remained untouched while the others argued over who ought to lead what host in taking which islands. To make up for lost time, they'd be sending three hosts instead of two to pacify the islands.

Ser Jason would lead the smallest host of Lannister and Baratheon vassals on the westernmost attack to take Dustspear. Ironically enough, the island was closer to Sunspear than the Veiled Isle, but had never in its history paid tribute to Sunspear due to Lyseni meddling. Lord Jon Arryn would lead the northerners and riverlanders to take the central Grey Gallows, while the largest host of Reach knights and Dornish spears under Ser Gerold would make for Scarwood.

It made sense that their largest host would be the closest to the Essosi shore in case Maelys attacked, and Lelouch doubted anyone but the White Bull could keep the two armies from killing each other.

The moon was high and bright when they finally retired.

Lelouch's tent remained as he'd left it. The pavilion of heavy linen with a coating of wax and linseed oil in case of rain had little in the way of heavier embellishments beyond the chairs and tables for entertaining guests. Lelouch couldn't afford to bring the bare minimum for war as he preferred, or House Velaryon would lose face. Still, he kept the displayed wealth in relatively portable forms—small, elegantly crafted glassworks, exotic vintages from Lorath to the Summer Isles, anything that could be stuffed into a chest and carried off in minutes really.

What he didn't remember leaving in his tent was a bearded Lyseni with pale blue eyes like the dragonlords of old Valyria and the small chest of gold he propped his feet atop of.

"You've a guest, cousin," Donnall said dryly, standing behind the pirate captain with his hand resting heavy on his pommel.

"I hope you don't mind. I helped myself to some wine," Captain Lysandro said, pouring the both of them a glass of white wine. "Ah, smells like home!"

"You have news for me?" Lelouch asked after taking a seat across.

Lysandro nodded, taking his feet off the chest and sitting up straight. "We seized the tradeship _Saltbreaker _right before it reached the Sea of Myrth and the Tyroshi patrols. Skirted around Pryr and followed the Westerosi coastline back here, like you instructed. The chest of gold is your cut, and the slaves we passed along to your Myrish pet." He patted his head twice. "The woman with green hair."

"Cici confirmed it," Donnall said.

Lysandro clutched his heart in an exaggerated fashion. "I'm hurt! Do you not trust my word, young man? I may be a pirate, but I have my honor."

"I'm sure," Donnall said.

Lelouch rapped his knuckles against the soldier pine table. "This is the second ship you've hit, correct?"

"Yes, and by far the more lucrative of the two," Lysandro said.

"The first was a sampler," Lelouch said. An honorable pirate was still a pirate, and he couldn't trust the man to run off if he gave away all his leverage. "The other ships, unfortunately, will not be so easy to get to. They fall on the Lorathi and Braavosi routes. I'll have the next route delivered to you before my fleet departs."

Lysandro clicked his tongue. "Braavos is exempt from our raids. The terms of your man were quite clear."

"It only applies for foreign ships headed to Braavos, not the other way around," Lelouch said. "And Rasporos is not Braavosi."

"That may be so, but those routes are too far north, especially with Tyrosh so active. Unless you'd be willing to let my ships dock on that island of yours?" Lysandro asked. "If not, I'm afraid there's nothing more we can do."

"My, what little faith you have in me," Lelouch said. "I've been ordered to keep Tyrosh occupied, and I intend to succeed."

Lysandro laughed. "I like you. You don't flinch from anything, even using men like me. But I've seen the size of your fleet and you've some ninety ships that fly the seahorse. It is not enough to take Tyrosh. Your men will die beneath their high walls."

"If I deliver to you the impossible," Lelouch said, twining his fingers together, "then I might have earned your trust."

**-ZeroRequiem-**

"_Twelve thousand_ marines?" repeated young Lord Josua Bar Emmon.

"Conservatively," Lelouch said. "They could add more than thrice that if they stripped Tyrosh and all their tributary cities of their garrisons today, though I doubt they would go that far. The longer this war goes on, the more men they'll be able to call on to serve in the navies." The recent coup that made Alequo Adarys sole master of Tyrosh had seen some of the city's marines killed. It would take time to recover from those losses, true, but Tyrosh had the gold for sellswords and the men to man their ships.

"Hard to believe coin counters would have so many swords to call on. We're greatly outnumbered, Lord Velaryon," said Lord Qarlton Stokesworth, one of the oldest crownlanders to have survived Naqes.

"If we let them bring the whole of their strength to bear against us in pitched battle, I'd agree," Lelouch said. "Which is why we won't let them."

"But if they attack, we'd have to respond," Josua said. "We cannot allow them an unopposed path to Ser Gerold's flank. Failure would dishonor all of us."

Quiet Duram, a nephew of the recently departed Lord Rosby, nodded.

"Which is why," Dylar Wendwater interjected just as they'd rehearsed, "we will not give them the chance to attack us."

"You want to attack?" Qarlton said. "That'd be even greater folly."

"If it means we'll face a host smaller than ours, or even at par, it may be our best option. Seize the initiative," said Josua.

"Numbers aren't everything in a fight," Qarlton replied. "Storming an island is costly, and no island has built walls as high as Tyrosh to my knowledge. Had we ten times their men and I still would advise against this course of action."

"I intend to attack, yes," Lelouch said, "but not at Tyrosh. Lord Qarlton, of all those present here, your house must be the closest to King's Landing. Tell me, how does a city of five hundred thousand get fed?"

"Not easily," Qarlton said immediately. "Wagons from the Reach, the riverlands, and the crownlands arrive daily to sell crops, meats salted and smoked; dried and pickled… you want to starve out Tyrosh?"

"Such an undertaking would be impossible with the meagre force we have to work with," Dylar said. "With under eight thousand men, we'd be hard pressed to take and hold enough of their hinterlands to truly starve them out, even if the Disputed Lands was not teeming with our enemies."

"They could also fish," Duram finally said.

"And they could also fish," Dylar said, acknowledging the boy's contribution with a nod.

"We'd have to blockade them by sea then?" Josua asked.

Qarlton shook his head. "Not until the last of the winter storms come to pass. I reckon we have a month or two more of those. We'd be scattered by one easily enough while the Tyroshi watched from their rock, then they'd sally out and round up the survivors one by one."

In all its years Tyrosh has never fallen save through duplicity or dragonfire for good reason. With Volantis' militarism after the Doom of Valyria, many forget that of all the Free Cities it was Tyrosh alone that the dragonlords established to be a military outpost first and foremost. The copper counting, and even their famous dyes came later.

"There are tributary cities sworn to Tyrosh," Dylar said. "They are smaller, but also easier to harm in this way."

"How so?" Josua asked. "Would not having less mouths to feed be a boon to them if we pursue this stratagem?"

"If this were Westeros, yes," Lelouch said. "Do any of you know how wars, normal wars, are waged between the Free Cities? My uncle once told me proper sieges were unheard of here. They surrender cities without spilling blood or bringing ruin to their fields." He held his hands out to either side, mimicking a scale. "When these men make war on each other, they see it not with honor as we do, but as merchants would."

The lords looked at each other.

"Do you imagine," Lelouch continued, "this _complacency _would serve the lesser cities well when faced with a force like ours?"

"If it's as bloodless as you say, these sieges… you want to occupy their cities?" Qarlton asked.

"We don't have the men to spare garrisoning every city we come across," Dylar said. "No, my lords, what we propose is something far simpler."

"We drive their smallfolk into the cities. Leave their crops to rot, burn their fields, leave their herds to the jackals," Lelouch said. "When they ask for terms, they'll find no one to bargain with. When they send their army, they'll find no host to take the field. It sounds simple, but I assure you _they_ have never had to fight the kinds of wars we wage for long."

Josua pressed his finger on the map where the Tyroshi hinterlands lay. "If we're over here doing as you say, how does this keep their fleet away from Bloodstone?"

"If there is one thing I've learned to trust when it comes to copper counters, it's their self-interest. Alequo Adarys cannot afford to ignore us, not if he likes being the Archon of Tyrosh," Lelouch said. "Tell me, if an enemy of yours brought ruin to lands and villages titled to you as I'd just described, and you hid in your castles, would you be lord for long?"

"For a while at least," Qarlton Stokesworth said. "But if I was forced to hide long enough? No, I would be lord of nothing in truth."

"Lord of ashes and bitter dust," Duram said.

"You say these Essosi merchants see war differently from us," Josua said. "If this is true, why should the fate of a few cities bother them enough to react, when they could land a crippling blow on us?"

"They might see war differently," Lelouch said, "but you'll find the game of power remains the same. Alequo is new to the Archonate, and it was achieved through ill means." Adarys had purged his biggest rivals and obstacles when he took the city, but he could not very well order the wholesale extermination of Tyrosh's elite. "I imagine many men resent him for this. If cities long sworn to Tyrosh suddenly break away, well…"

Josua nodded. "He would look weak. Weak enough that his rule might be challenged."

"Ignoring us causes more problems than it solves," Dylar said.

**-ZeroRequiem-**

For a task where brutality was a virtue, there was no one better suited for it than Lord Dylar's monster-at-arms, Ser Rolan Redmoore. Besides, it was unwise to leave a man of his… _qualities _idle for long.

Ten oared taridas—ships designed by the Citadel specifically so that the Reach's knights could unload onto the beach already horsed—would bring Redmoore and two hundred swords to a point off the coast of Highwatch. It was well behind the chain of cities Tyrosh currently claimed as their border, some fifty miles north of Naqes, but that strip of shore was lightly patrolled after Highwatch had fallen into their hands. A change of horse would be made available to each man to ensure they remained mobile throughout the raiding mission.

"Bah!" Redmoore said as he listened to his orders. "Asking me _not_ to fight whatever poor bastards I come across? You test me, Velaryon, truly."

Lelouch smiled. "If you prefer, I can have someone else lead it."

"And be stuck on this goddamned island doing _nothing_ for much longer?"

"Those are your options," Lelouch said.

He sighed. "Fine, fine! I'll withdraw each time I'm faced with serious opposition, on my word as a knight."

"I'm glad we understand each other," Lelouch said. "I'll be rather cross if most of your men don't make it back safely. We only have five hundred knights and as many squires with us."

"Yes, yes, and if I lose too many men it means there'll be less battles we can take. So you've said," Redmoore said grudgingly.

The raiders were without lance and only lightly armored in helmets, breastplates over hauberks, and greaves. Still an overwhelming threat to any militia-grade force, but dangerously underdressed for anything more than a skirmish if faced with a serious foe.

They departed after two days of preparation.

The shoreline had to be scouted for any signs of the Golden Company or Fossoway's Knightfall Company—the only two forces with a heavy cavalry component that could shut down their attack before it could do damage. That neither were spotted was both boon and bane, as no one in the Westerosi host seemed to know where they could be.

While Redmoore set the vast farming estates to torch and drove slaves away from the planting fields, the crownlanders and Myrish auxiliaries were not just sitting about idly. Drills were conducted daily to keep the men alert and arrows needed making as they always ran short before the killing was done with. As for the smartest of Driftmark's captains, Lelouch set them about memorizing rhymes each noon.

"Red atop black, attack," they chanted in chorus. "Red below black, pull back."

"As clever as this wordplay of yours is, I cannot help but wonder what purpose it serves?" Dylar said. "We do not have some surplus of red and black cloth, or any colored cloth for that matter."

"Brown like sand, land."

"I've taken steps to remedy that. All in due time," Lelouch said.

"Blue dyed, starboard side. Black like night, flank right."

Dylar tilted his head. "As you say. It's been a sennight since Redmoore left, and the patrols around Pryr have not lessened a whit. If the Tyroshi have sent men to root out ours, they did not take them from there. It may be time for us to lean on them more, proceed to the next part of your plan."

Lelouch looked up to the sky, watching the wispy clouds strewn across it. "The legitimacy of the Archon rests on the compliance of tributaries, the merchants' prosperity, and the city's security," he said softly.

They could commit more men to Redmoore, accelerate the devastation in the hopes that defections occur. Not the slaveholding elite, those men were too rich and could buy every scrap of food to pass through their gates. They might be negotiated with however. The freemen? An option, but mayhaps too few in numbers with too much to lose. The slaves? Things would have to be truly desperate for men and women to face bared steel with bare hands.

Tyroshi trade was already a popular target for the Stepstone pirates, and the south and west was virtually closed off to Tyroshi captains save the most daring or foolish. The northern routes remained open as Tyrosh and Pryr made for formidable twin guards. Lelouch could skirt around them, launch privateers from Driftmark like he'd allowed Lysandro to do. That would take time to arrange, at the earliest a fortnight before it could bear fruit.

But to allow it in such numbers would be _problematic _once the war ended. A city needed trade, and traders had good reason to fear a lord that once openly invited pirates to stage attacks from their lands. It was not _deniable_.

As for Tyrosh proper, it would be denied to Maelys in time, but that time had not yet come.

"How much surplus in armaments do we have on hand?" Lelouch asked.

"Castle-forged steel?"

Lelouch shook his head. "That would be a waste. Normal steel will do or even iron workings. Anything sharp."

"What have you in mind?"

His smile to Dylar was all teeth. "Are we not in Sacred Struggle?"

**-ZeroRequiem-**

It was at times like this, when Cici stretched lazily on his bed and enjoyed the warmth of his blankets, that Lelouch thought her the personification of all things feline. Her eyes shared the shade of House Lannister's lion and her love of curling up on his bed—or perhaps denying him use of it—was certainly catlike.

"You're a fool," she said.

"You're the only one who thinks so," Lelouch said from the desk as he left the ink on his letter to dry.

"I'm the only one who knows you, and who you once were," Cici said. "Even now, you push yourself to do every vital thing. No wonder you had yourself killed after a few short months as emperor, you would've gone mad if you sat on that throne any longer!"

He read through his message to Driftmark one more time before he was satisfied it was without fault. "That was hardly why I did it."

"It wasn't," she conceded as she stood, "but that doesn't mean I'm wrong. You're a fool, Lelouch, to think you can affect change by doing everything on your own."

"I'm hardly trying to fight off the Golden Company single-handedly."

"No, but you are trying to do it against Tyrosh. Why else would you be landing personally with those weapons of yours?" Cici asked. "Anyone else could see them delivered."

"You don't know Rolan Redmoore like I do," Lelouch said, looking up. "I've worked with the man many times now—he won't listen to just anyone."

Her eyes hardened as she at the flickering wax candles, their dance reflecting against her irises. "He's a killer who enjoys killing. I know his type well. Let him savage a few men when the city falls to anarchy and he'll be happy as can be."

"The slaves will never rise up for him," Lelouch said. "He's a—"

"A Westerosi knight, a member of the privileged elite. Closer to a magister in truth than one of them for all his uncouthness," Cici said. "But so are you. Who is Lelouch Velaryon to the Essosi? Just some boy raised since birth to rule. Have you ever known a day of hard labor, worked 'til your hands bled? Have you ever felt that gnawing, bottomless feeling of emptiness as your stomach turns on itself? Have you ever been whipped for speaking out, or moving too slow, or just to sate someone's whims?"

"You know I have," he said.

"_Not_ in this life."

He nodded slowly. "Not in this life."

She looked him in the eye. "Then don't sit there and lie to me. You were never counting on these slaves to rise up for anyone but themselves. All you're doing is giving them the means to take their fate into their own hands, and the opportunity brought about by sowing chaos."

"It would be difficult for these men to work with Redmoore. He has spent the past week and a half killing them," Lelouch said.

"Killing others," Cici countered. "Should he walk up to them, acclaim them free men and strike down anyone who could say otherwise, would they say no? If he fed them, clothed them, made them wealthy enough to truly be free men, would they deny him?"

"Perhaps," Lelouch said. "He's never been the diplomatic sort. Praise from him might sound like scorn, and his gifts a trap. Besides, he chafes at being put on a leash, making peace with those he sees beneath him may be the last straw."

"Then send your cousin Donnall," Cici said. "If you mistrust Redmoore, trust the boy you grew up with to see your will carried out. He has no command of his own and no part in your war councils. His only task now seems to keep your head attached to your neck, and he's not yet so fine a swordsman that he'd be the difference where over seven thousand spears fail."

"Is he not just as privileged as I am? He was raised beside me after all."

"He's a bastard," Cici said. "At any point he lost favor, you could have cast him out. That you never entertained the thought speaks more about you than him."

Lelouch shrugged. "He was family, and he never tried to kill me or mine."

"He was baseborn, and everyday for three years he'd leave you eating dust in the courtyard. Your otherwise flawless record in the eyes of men tarnished because of him. Because you could be _compared _to someone who learned all your fancy tricks with the sword, one at a time until they wouldn't work on him anymore," Cici said. "When your men thought you weak at Myr, do you think it wasn't because there was a better warrior standing next to you all these years? He gave them reason to find fault in you."

"Donnall sided with me in a heartbeat, even against his own father, and those men followed my uncle because I was a boy and he was not," Lelouch said. "You're reaching and you know it."

She walked over to him, placing both hands on his face. They were warm and gnarled and rough. Cici waited for him to look up of his own will before she spoke. "I guess that makes us a pair. You're looking for reasons not to send me."

"You're—"

Cici shushed him with a finger to his lips. "Is there anyone better? I brought this world my pies, just because I could and made thousands of people follow my whims. I was chained like they were, and when the Tyroshi behold me, they will see some likeness. A distant kinship perhaps, because my hair is colored in their style. Rasporos could not know from where it was I originated. Do you think that wasn't on purpose?" She knelt, stroking his hair. "I've lived many lives, experienced many things. When I play a role, it feels genuine because it _was _genuine for me, at some point. I've done this before, let me do this for you."

"Things are different now," Lelouch said. "You're—" The words caught in his throat. _You're not immortal anymore._

"And you do not possess the power of kings," Cici said. "Why does that change anything? Those powers of ours were shortcuts, they always were. In two years or twenty, we would have done what we did all the same."

In a voice so small it was barely a whisper, Lelouch said, "I don't want to lose you again."

She stretched out his hand, and poked the smooth pink skin that had finally healed. "Then you ought to take better care of yourself. I'm not the one that's nearly died several times."

"Will this make you happy?"

"I'm happiest as your partner, Lelouch. I'll accept nothing else."

**-ZeroRequiem-**

Among the Three Daughters, the collars were seen as commodities to be bought, sold, and traded. What the magisters did not use them for was a means to feel superior, at least not primarily. So while the Volantenes would put ink to the faces of their slaves, forever marking their status as being _beneath _free men, the slaves in the Disputed Lands remained unbranded.

Certainly one could distinguish most of them through the collars they wore, their tattered clothes, or their unrefined speech, but if a slave were educated and valued enough to be given silk robes? Those, such as the tutors that taught the offspring of the wealthy, were virtually indistinguishable from free men.

The most valued slaves were treated well, and likely lived in luxury most free men could only dream of. Paradoxically, these slaves most capable of escape _refused _to; their fine dresses and rich food serving as a gilded cage stronger than the iron bars the chattel were kept in as punishment. If they left, where would they go and with what coin? They'd been domesticated, trained to expect a certain lifestyle they could not leave behind. The downtrodden, on the other hand, were worked to death and oft too tired to plan or execute any kind of escape.

"If I leave, how would I eat? Where would I go?" those men would say to themselves, and so the cycle continued.

There were some, of course, in whom the yearning for freedom burned so hot that they'd overcome these hurdles. Some, but too few to be a meaningful disruption. These, the magisters would claim, died painful deaths and their corpses left for the animals to pick at. Was it true? Who could say; least of all a collared man.

Controlling the narrative was a powerful thing the magisters understood, but now the reins had slipped from their fingers.

"Averillys has risen up in rebellion," Lelouch said to his war council. "The heads of slavers line their walls. Our scouts report movement along the coasts. Tyrosh has sent a contingent of their marines and sellswords under the banner of a two-headed man."

"The Myrish succeeded," Josua said in a tone that betrayed his surprise.

When he had sent Cici to incite rebellion, many lords opposed sending a woman. It's why he'd sent half the auxiliaries with her—they could not object if those men did not belong to them.

"Take heed then, and learn the lesson well. I do not trust lightly, and the people I choose are not decided without care," Lelouch said.

It was simple enough for Cici to come across a band of slaves driven off from the vast farmlands they tended. With their slavedriver dead, their master far away, and their fields burned and no longer fit for planting, there was little for them to do. She offered them pretty gifts and a cart of food, with directions to the closest city. They accepted of course, driven on by fears for their own safety.

Dressed nicely and with the ongoing food shortages, the guards didn't even look twice at the wagon before showing it in. If they had, they'd have found plenty of weapons hidden beneath.

They hadn't rebelled at first. But then the trickle of food making its way to the city stopped completely as the Myrish blocked the Valyrian roads leading to it, and the poor always starved first. Hunger, anger, and weapons made for a dangerous concoction in cramped conditions. Suddenly, those knives and iron swords looked far more appealing. It only took a handful of men to decide they'd rather eat than starve for violence to break out, and afterwards: madness.

Mobs overwhelmed the guards of the manses and city walls, those that hadn't fled beforehand. Magisters were stabbed half a hundred times. It was almost merciful that they died quickly, for their soft slaves too were seized and drowned slowly in the salt sea. Women had their silks torn and wrapped around their delicate necks 'til they choked.

The children fared worst of all. Their flesh was tender and when a crowd went rabid, even the Old Gods looked away.

Then, just as abruptly, the madness ended. Cici allowed the wayns and wagons to pass through, and she was acclaimed the First Friend of Averillys. She who had brought the city to madness with a single command to her people. Now the tributary declared themselves free, and word had spread like a plague.

The declaration was a challenge to Tyrosh's authority twice over.

"These smallfolk are not soldiers," Qarlton said. "Their city will fall in time to Tyrosh unless we assist them in holding the walls. If we set sail tomorrow, we could reach them with time to spare."

"We'll sail on the morrow, but not for Essos," Dylar said. "We've a different target in mind."

"They'll make a fine distraction then, if nothing else," Qarlton said.

Lelouch's stomach churned as he engineered thousands of deaths with but a word. "Pryr."

"The Tyroshi fleet has had to shift some ships around to be able to land the host they did," Dylar said. "Pryr's garrison has weakened considerably—we estimate it held by under half of what it had a few days ago. Maybe some thousand men left now and a dozen ships."

"They must think our host headed for Essos," Josua said.

"Them and everyone else," Lelouch said. Outside, the sky was dappled with rows of tiny fleecy clouds in a rippling pattern, like the scales of a fish. "My lords, I would hear your thoughts on how we might take and hold this Tyroshi outpost."

The jockeying for command began.

**-ZeroRequiem-**

Three weeks since he returned to Bloodstone, Lelouch found himself departing from its shores once more, though with living men instead of corpses.

Pryr was the northernmost island and the black sheep of the island chain, depending on which maester's classification of the Stepstones one was inclined towards. The geographic classification would see Tyrosh listed as the fifteenth island, technically also a remnant of the now submerged Arm of Dorne.

Politically? It was unwise to lump Tyrosh with sellsails, reavers, and pirates if one liked to purchase fine dyes. Though by that same argument one might claim Pryr was not truly of the Stepstones either. The Tyroshi held dominion over the island longer than anyone could claim over any other in the Stepstones. More importantly, almost every significant naval power in the narrow sea region recognized their claim. Culturally its inhabitants had adapted too, though without such ostentatious waste of wealth like dyeing one's beard in garish colors.

Living on a rock more ill-suited to agriculture left its marks.

It was, however, a fine port whose high cliffs kept the worst of the wind out not only from their harbor, but also those long, red slices of northern beach along Bloodstone. With Pryr in hand, Tyrosh exerted significant influence over the north-south trade routes running through the Strait of Dye and the Strait of Tyrosh. The same reasons why the Stepstone privateers could not totally shut down Tyroshi trade filled Maelys Blackfyre's warchest with an admittedly smaller, but still significant and consistent amount of gold.

That ended today.

"So that's what those rhems were for," Dylar said, staring at the mast of _Seafyre_ where a red-and-black flag flew at half-staff.

"They arrived three days ago from Driftmark, along with that," Lelouch said, gesturing to a semispherical bronze bowl large enough to seat two grown men if not for the goat hide stretched tautly over its mouth. A tanned Myrman who'd formerly served Magister Rasporos stood behind it like a watchman, a pair of wooden sticks tucked beneath his armpit.

"I don't think I've ever seen a drum that large," Dylar said. "It looks heavy."

"It weighs ten stone, but the Myrish are fond of kettledrums for entertainment during parties," Lelouch said, "I've found it's sound quite distinct, and it has a quality of cutting through noise easily."

"Red atop black, attack," Dylar remembered. "You've been having your captains learn a set of commands."

Lelouch nodded. "Or move forward when it's in that position. The commands remain simple and serviceable for now, but with more time I hope to expand on the system."

"It would run into troubles with a large fleet," he said, stroking his chin, "or during times of poor visibility like night or a fog."

"You raise excellent points," Lelouch said. "You're right. If the fleet were larger, I'd have a few ships placed strategically to repeat my orders. Poor visibility would still hamper my orders though. I might teach men how to communicate by drumbeat in the future, if circumstances prove favorable."

"It would be quite the undertaking," Dylar said as a dozen Tyroshi ships launched to meet them. "So, would you have your captains staring at this ship's mast all day then? How are they to know when to look for new orders?"

"Like this. Flag to full mast!" Lelouch said as a seaman on standby started pulling on the rope to hoist the flag to its summit.

The Myrman pulled out his hardwood sticks and began beating on the kettledrum. The round, resonant sound it produced carried across the water easily. Heads turned towards them, and the captains began barking out orders. The fleet picked up speed.

"At full mast, it's meaning becomes _attack_," Dylar said, putting on his greathelm and lifting his morningstar.

So they attacked.

The Tyroshi fought bravely, the Tyroshi fought honorably, the Tyroshi fought valiantly. And the Tyroshi died.

Outnumbered seven-to-one, they never stood a chance and it took no cleverness to beat them. If the stakes of this war weren't so high, Lelouch might have felt badly commanding a fight so skewed instead of leaving it to a trusted subordinate.

"We ought to send word to our pirate allies," Lelouch said as he watched men raise the flag of Driftmark over the harbor an hour later. "The gate to Tyrosh's trade fleets lies open now, all that's left is to _seize _them."

"They'll come for us as soon as they're able," Dylar said. "And given how you've ordered Redmoore and those Myrmen to pull back from Essos, it'll be very soon. Averillys will not remain independent for long with nothing but ex-slaves and brittle knives to hold their walls."

"I'm counting on it," Lelouch said.

At every step, they'd forced Tyrosh's hand to this conclusion. Lelouch was entirely unsurprised when a hundred ships bearing the purple banner of Tyrosh came from the east after just three days.

Overhead, dark clouds gathered and thunder boomed.

_Perfect_.


	20. Interlude - Come and Go

**Chapter 20: Interlude - Come and Go**

"Unstep and stow mast!" said Lord Jon Wells of Evendim Ridge.

His grandfather—who'd won his southron lordship by saving a Velaryon's life at sea—had brought him to foster with their kin when he was a wee lad of nine. The waters were choppier up north, where the narrow sea neared the shivering sea, and the wind was cold enough to freeze your hands if you weren't careful. Those lessons in his youth came back to him now.

"Master Clyde, keep our stern to the wind," Jon said.

"Aye, m'lord!"

The man he trusted more than anyone else on the ship. He was an old hand and had a firm grip on the steering oar. They'd faced storms at sea before.

The dark clouds overhead were illuminated for a brief moment, before the boom of thunder reached his ears. _Though never quite anything like a winter storm_, Jon thought. He'd been honored by the Young Seahorse when he'd been commanded to lead ten ships to meet the now rapidly approaching Tyroshi fleet, and did not regret it.

The rest of Driftmark's ships had been tied up and anchored at the pier, with wooden fenders thrown over the side in case the high cliffs of Pryr did not keep out all of the stormwinds. Their masts were unstepped and rolled up as well so the winds could not break them. Those measures wouldn't prevent all harm to those ships—a severe blow could snap the anchor cable and mooring line, capsize the ship, or throw it against the rocks and smash the hull—but the good men ashore would not lose their lives.

Good men were harder to find than good wood these days, as Myr had proven.

As for Jon's _Maidenhull_ and the nine other ships he led, they would drown today in service to the Old Gods and the New: killing some slaving fucks.

Visorless halfhelm tucked beneath his arm, he watched Tyroshi approach from the east this time. He'd been there besides his lord when a hundred of these same ships had come at Bloodstone from the north. They had been smashed then by fire, and it was fitting in a way they'd be smashed now by water and wind.

"My lord has a sense for poetry," Jon murmured with a smile before he turned to face his marines. They all wore gambesons instead of brigandine as he commanded. They weren't Iron Islanders. He'd rather they die in battle than let the Drowned God take them. As for him, he wore a sturdy chainmail hauberk for his place was at the front, _leading_ like the Stark would.

Jon heard the low, deep sounds of his lordship's drum beating, building in pace. Bam-bam BAM-bam BAM-BAM.

Off to his starboard, the _Wolfwind _surged forward.

"Forward!" Jon cried. Master Clyde repeated his orders to the oarsmen and their oars bit into the dark depths, catching and then driving her to spring forward, as though she were eager for the coming fight too.

Beside him, Bryce, the serjeant of the _Maidenhull'_s marines, spat into the sea and banged the butt of his halberd against the wood, following after the beat of the drums.

_Gods Old and New, preserve my men. May they serve the lordling Velaryon well._ The prayer came easily and Jon capped it by quaffing a mouthful of mead from the silver wine cup he was holding. Then, he let his honey wine spill out into the churning water, losing themselves to where dark things dwelt in anticipation of the coming slaughter. When the last drop went overboard, the cup followed.

Jon loosened his bastard sword from its scabbard, but didn't draw it, and peered over the taffrails. "Here, old man sea! Take it, and soon the blood of the slaving scum will be yours to savor too!"

The winds howled even louder, pleased by his offering and the floodgate of the heavens opened wide. The gap between them and the Tyroshi was closing fast.

_But not fast enough they'll find refuge in time, not if they have to go through us_, Jon thought with satisfaction. Twenty marines formed up with shields and polearms, banging the same beat Bryce was. Behind them, a baker's dozen of archers loosed their first shafts.

He secured his helmet snugly over his head and tightened the leather ties underneath his chin. Bryce handed him his polearm.

"Fight well, men! Many of you have heard of Hughes Truespear, who lost a hand for knighthood. The Young Seahorse has promised that and riches to all of you who do him honor today! If you fall today, it won't be for naught. Your sons and daughters will be well-provided for," Jon said. There was still hesitation in their eyes, and fear, but there was nowhere for them to go save _forward_.

Jon left it at that. He was no great speaker like the Young Seahorse was. Instead he bellowed his house words: "Deep wells, deep deeds!"

"Driftmark!" Bryce screamed.

"Deep wells!" Jon said.

"DEEP DEEDS!" his men chorused, the resolve behind their eyes hardening into something almost tangible.

Many would die today, but for those that lived: Immortality. Their stories would live on in the songs and in their children. Lelouch Velaryon had specifically ordered the green boys of Driftmark who'd not yet felt a woman's touch to remain ashore, and all present had volunteered for this. At least half of the fighting men were born and raised in Driftmark, and Lelouch Velaryon had proven beyond doubt that he'd take care of his men.

The boy had fed the children all throughout the winter after all.

"More courage than sense. I'll not have men die for something they'll lose in battle," the Young Seahorse had said. Jon didn't question him. He'd proven wise beyond his years time and again.

He turned his eyes aftwards.

_Now! _and he leapt.

Lightning crackled, the waves roared, and the _Maidenhull_ rammed into a foe-ship. Clyde had done his job, and done it well. _Maidenhull_ drove home the foe's hull a point to the port of his prow, and the ships locked together with a huge crash of wood and bronze.

Jon had misjudged the leap, and landed heavily on a red bearded Tyroshi trying to back away. For a moment, the man struggled underneath him, but Jon drove the spikes on the knuckles of his gauntlet into the man's face once, twice, and then you could not tell whether his beard was reddened by blood or dye.

A sword bounced into the back of his chainmail—not a clean hit though it knocked the breath out of him. That was all the chance the man got before Bryce was there, clearing the man off Jon's back while he stood.

"Velaryon and Driftmark!" The roar came from his marines as they swept onto the deck behind him, the first four men with poleaxes like his, and then Wells was standing.

Jon parried a spear thrust deftly with the shaft of his poleaxe, then drove his own into the open space between the fool's legs. The man looked surprised for half a heart-beat before Jon twisted the shaft in his hand and brought the blade _up _with a swing.

He kicked the corpse to the side as he pulled back his weapon.

In rough winds and rolling waves, the deck was tricky to work with even for sure-footed old men. It made the fighting less a clash of two armies and more a hundred brawls taking place at the same time.

Jon thrust again, in and out faster than a man running from a scorned woman's father. The man—boy he corrected, clutched at his torn neck and tried in vain to keep himself from bleeding to death.

With a roar, Jon powered forward, stepping on the boy's face with enough force to end his misery as he passed. The spike and spear-head on his poleaxe became slick and dark with blood. He took an unlucky cut on the underside of his vambrace from a Westerosi longsword, and the forearm piece of his harness came loose, flapping against his gauntlet and rerebrace.

Jon snarled inside his helmet, but found the offender in a pool of his own blood before he could get the satisfaction.

The ship shuddered beneath him, and he turned his head. A galley filled with flamboyantly colored beards had come to try to cut this ship free, and it started disgorging men onto the deck to try to drive back Wells and his marines. Screams from further a-sea caught his ears, and Jon grinned.

"Come on, you sons of whores! Bryce of Ridgeville knew your mothers with his cock!"

Driftmark men, old, brave, and true, swept the deck again. Blood ran out of the scuppers as wine from a drunk's mouth, slippery and dark.

"The cowards are going 'round us," Bryce said as he wiped his sword clean on the chest of a corpse. Ten ships were never going to be enough to stop the entire Tyroshi fleet, but it was enough to slow down the greatest portion of the host. At the edges though, galleys had decided to sail past them instead of flanking, heading straight for "safety" in Pryr.

"Aye. they dread us, run from us, but they'll find death waiting for them all the same," Jon said as they returned to their ship, their numbers now halved. If all was going according to plan, the beachhead would be filled with lines upon lines of crossbows, archers, ballistas, and javelins ready to skewer any fool who'd gamble against Driftmark arms.

_Maidenhull_ reared its oars, pulling away from the breached galley gently, like a lover backing away. Jon's gaze swept across the battle beneath the storm, and turned to his sailing master. "Clyde, that cog with the red sail, do you see it?"

"Aye, sir," he said, and broke off their conversation to bellow at the rowers. When he'd finished, the man looked at Jon and grinned. "Rake his oars?" The vessel was headed to a fight close to them, a Driftmark war galley flying high the Velaryon seahorse busy ramming a Tyroshi ship like a Lyseni tavern whore.

"Aye." Jon nodded. Someone handed him a canteen with watered wine in it, and he drank off the whole thing. Running low on arrows, the archers had gone from volley fire to picking their targets, exchanging bets on the difficulty of called shots. "We'll keep him from joining our friends, and then let's find a nice broad-side target and sink a ship."

Clyde grinned, no doubt cheered by the wealth coming his way soon. Jon paid handsomely for skilled sailors, and one of the hardest feats at sea was a successful oar-rake. It required timing, judgement, and an almost prophetic ability to guess what an enemy ship was going to do.

But if it worked?

The entire side of a ship's oars was more ruined than a highborn girl who'd sired a bastard. She'd be dead in the water, leaving her vulnerable to any other ship that happened by, and even if they had spare oars, it would be some minutes before they could move again. In a battle like this, minutes of idle time was a death sentence.

Jon watched Clyde of Hull judge the distance, judge the ships, and judge the man at the other steering oar, though how he could guess so much from the way a ship moved Jon didn't know.

_Maidenhull _carved through blood-stained water, her marines panting and her archers growing tired as their arrows ran low.

In the distance, a Driftmark ship was sunk when it suffered two broad-side rams to either side.

"Now!" Clyde called, and the rowers on the port side pulled in their oars. The enemy had mis-timed it, and their oars splintered in a great crackling sound, like a child breaking twigs. Splinters flew, and Jon felt sorry for the foe's rowers, likely to be slaves.

_Maidenhull_ carried through, and nearly sunk herself when a Driftmark galley had to back oars to keep from ramming her. Wells cursed her captain, but had to turn his attention back, and fast, to the cog his ship was fast approaching. The sea reached up and gripped its side for a moment, turning the deck slick.

_The rowers have to be tiring_, _fighting waves this high,_ Jon thought. The wind had picked up, slapping his face, howling so loudly he could barely hear. He saw a ship capsize, though he did not glimpse whether it was friend or foe. Jon pulled aside the man in charge of the archers. "See you get some bread and beer into my rowers as soon as you're out of arrows! Then pick up a sword and be ready to help my marines, aye?"

"Aye, ser!" The archer tipped his cap. "And a fine rare fight this is, by the gods!"

_By the gods indeed_, Jon thought. It was a fine sight to see, watching dyed ships dying all around them.

A cry from his sailing master caught his attention, and Jon turned in time to see a vessel too close to broad side ramming _Maidenhull_ to do anything to save his faithful vessel.

"Brace!" Then the _Maidenhull_'s keel was broken, and he was falling.

Jon's legs got tangled in a rower bench, and so he was kept from drowning. His hand reached for a poleaxe but found air instead of comfort in its sturdy oaken shaft. _No time,_ he thought, forcing himself to his feet and ignoring the splinters falling off his armor. He drew his longsword, belted high and under his armpit so the sheath wouldn't tangle in his legs.

Then he ran, ran across the length of the ship, willing his feet onward, onward, _onward!_

Jon leapt, managing to clasp the prow of the ship that was trying to back its oars from his dying ship. He pulled himself over the side with a heave, and more on instinct than conscious thought, blocked a sword with the back of his good gauntlet. It was finely made steel to keep his hand from bleeding, but damned if it didn't sting like buggery.

Sparing his hand no further sympathy, he thrust his sword and took the man's eye, feeling the blade's tip shudder against bone. An axe caught him vambrace, and he headbutted the man for his troubles, followed by a cut that took the axeman's fingers clean.

"Deep deeds!" Jon screamed, as he hacked and hacked and hacked. "Deep wells! Deep deeds!" He chanted in a roar, in challenge.

Three marines charged him, axes high. Jon danced to the side so that the men would be lined up, parrying the closest swing at his head before using the spikes of his gauntlet to break a nose and take an eye.

This was what the gods had whispered the secret of armor to metalsmiths for: getting in close among the enemy and using every limb, every motion, as a weapon and attack.

Jon kicked, driving the spiked tip of his sabaton into another man's lower leg with an ungodly din.

"_Morghulis_!" one of the bearded men screamed in a high-pitched tone that made Jon think he was a eunuch. His foes had learned their lesson and charged him from three sides, hemming him in against the taffrails of their ship—the wind howled.

Then the _cold_ came.

It seeped into his veins, into every crack and crevice of his clothes, soaking him, turning his blood to ice—he was falling, falling deeper and his eyes stung. When Jon opened his mouth to scream, salt filled the void and Jon Wells knew he was drowning.

He kicked out desperately, kicking, kicking, kicking while his hauberk anchored him, reeling him closer to the Drowned God. Jon opened his eyes one last time, and saw he was not alone.

The Drowned God embraced thousands, never to let go.

**-ZeroRequiem-**

When Maz Aleximar was hired at Selhorys two weeks ago, the war with the sunsetlanders was well in hand. An hour ago, he arrived at Alequo Adarys' war chambers—opulent enough to fund the whole war if they stripped it bare, he reckoned—to see a disturbing amount of panic for a war "well in hand".

As a captain of a Free Company, Maz was used to reversals of fortune. That was simply the nature of war. But reversals of this magnitude were as rare as merciful khals.

It seemed to Maz the change in seasons coincided with the change in the war's direction.

Two weeks ago, the City of Wine had just been made an example of by the three horned man standing across Maz. The slaves of Averillys were too valuable to butcher wholesale of course, but four hundred men, their wives, and children, were publicly mutilated, crucified, and fed to the wild dogs.

"A hundred for every magister was a merciful price to pay," Aemiddon Aelarr had said afterwards.

Such cruelty was to be expected from a citizen of Mantarys, the hellish city of monsters and twisted men. Even their Free Company embraced the sinister repute of their home, taking up the cognomen _Mandevils_. The Westerosi and their Myrish pets had fled soon after, refusing to face a host on the field after the "Humbling at Naqes", as the Tyroshi called it.

There were many gods of the world, but they all hated hubris Maz knew. The Valyrian dragonlords were proud people, and where were all the dragons now? Buried in Valyria under ash and fire, where once it was _they_ who covered others in ash and fire. And the _Tagaez Fen_ whose great kings thought so highly of themselves, now all of them and their lines exterminated by the Dothraki.

All save one: within the spotless white walls of enduring Saath, the blood of tall men still flowed true.

"Captain Aleximar," Adarys said, having to tilt his head back to look him in the eye even at a distance, "perhaps you'd care to share your thoughts on the situation? You have been silent all this time."

"I did not think it my place, Archon," Maz said, both palms flat against his chest as he bowed from the waist, in the way of his people. "The Last Sons number the fewest of all the men you pay."

"It is your place if I say it is, and I do," Adarys said, before glaring at his colorfully bearded admirals. "What could your words hurt? I'm already surrounded by overconfident fools."

"We cannot bide our time," Maz said. "If all that your men say is true, the longer we wait, the more certain our defeat."

"You speak of cowardice so easily," spat Aelarr. "I expected no less from a man whose people the horselords overran."

Maz narrowed his eyes. "My people _fought_, while _your_ gold fills the coffers of khals, or do you think the slaves you buy from Slaver's Bay come elsewhere?"

"You insolent—"

"This," interjected Alequo, "is not what I pay either of you for. Expound on your thoughts, Aleximar. I would hear it over the empty boasts."

"As you wish, Archon. This King Seafyre—"

"Lord Velaryon," Alequo corrected.

"—Lord Seafyre Velaryon, thank you," Maz said with a nod, "he has brought great ruin to your island. This Pryr, yes? And he did it with but ten ships. I have heard your men whisper as well of the defeat he inflicted on you earlier this year at Bloodstone where you sent a hundred ships and lost four in ten. Time and time again, the Seafyre proves himself our master in matters of sea. Would you say this is accurate?"

Alequo nodded.

"He has used but a fraction of the ships your enemies have," Maz said. "And look at what he has achieved already! When the sunsetlanders are done with the pirates, and it should be soon I suspect, what ruin he might inflict on you when his army is bolstered. The walls of Tyrosh are high and mighty, but even the mighty can be brought low if the gods will it."

_And the gods often do_, he said in his mind.

"So you propose surrender?" Alequo said.

"No, Archon. I would never propose peace when I make my living through war," Maz said earnestly. "I say what I do merely to impress on the men and _others—_" he glanced pointedly at Aelarr, "here the urgency with which we need to act. This Pryr must be taken back quickly to stop the gold from bleeding, and unlike a normal wound, this is one that will only worsen with time."

"The last fleet we sent was destroyed!" a pink-bearded admiral shouted. "It's been a week and we're still finding survivors from that battle clinging to rocks and living off rain like animals."

"It should be safe from winter storms by now with spring upon us," another man, this one with yellow stripes coloring his beard, said. "The last one was a big one, and we won't see another of it's size for some time. Maybe just one smaller one left before the storms stop altogether."

"And you still have a hundred ships, yes?" Maz asked.

"A hundred and twenty as of last count," Yellow Stripes said, "though we suspect the enemy have captured a similar number of cogs and galleys we've recovered."

Alequo banged his fist against the table. "Are you telling me that on top of the grievous injuries he inflicted on us, Velaryon actually _increased_ the size of his fleet?"

"Ships are of no use without fighting men, and fighting men are of no use without ships," Maz said. "So he has a few more, but it does not change that he had to sacrifice ten boats worth of oarsmen and soldiers to win that victory. Losses he cannot replace while his friends are still busy. We should take this opportunity to force him from Pryr while we can with the whole might of Tyrosh."

"And leave the city defenseless?" Pink Beard asked in an incredulous tone.

"Tyrosh is a walled island. Leave a garrison here and laugh at them if they spend their strength on rocks," Maz said. "If you do not take Pryr now, you might never take it back until the war ends and who knows when that might be?"

_Hopefully not for a very long time_. Tyrosh paid double the rates of Volantis to endure half the contempt.

In the end, the Archon of Tyrosh willed Pryr be taken back, and so the fleet tried again, two weeks after the Battle Beneath the Storm.

Seafyre must have seen them coming days away for Pryr fell to them without a fight—what was left of it anyway. The harbor was slighted, the wells stuffed with rotting men, the warehouses burned… it would be the work of many weeks to make it more than a damp, miserable ruin reeking of death and decay.

It _had _put a stop to the raids on Tyroshi shipping, but the damage was done. The merchants from Pentos and beyond who'd trade with Tyrosh had lost ships and the means to trade with them. Those merchants who weren't trading with them had no reason to now that the integrity of the sealanes was in doubt. Oh, in time things would return to normal, but in the weeks that followed this victory, an atmosphere of defeat plagued the city's inhabitants.

The Mandevils and the Company of Gentlemen were both ordered to keep an eye on the shorelines in case Seafyre (or Stormcaller, as the marines deep in their cups now called him on dark nights) tried his old tricks, but he seemed to have other ideas.

The first day, Seafyre sailed his ships just out of ballista distance from Tyrosh and smashed a patrolling ship. The next day, he did it again but off the coast of Essos. Then again at Pryr, and Pryr again the day after. The man seemed to know their thoughts before they thought it, appearing wherever he was least expected.

_It has to be magic_, Maz thought.

It didn't take long for their ships to huddle together for safety, but that meant no patrols could be sent out. What other option did they have though? Have their ships whittled down day after day? They'd already lost ten ships to his advances.

So it was entirely unforeseen when a ship of Seafyre's entered within spitting distance of Tyrosh, flying a white flag beneath the proud seahorse.

What surprised Maz more was that the Archon did not order his men to ram it.

**-ZeroRequiem-**

As an officer of the Iron Bank, Alequo had to hone a keen sense for _opportunity_. It was, more than anything else, what he treasured most from his time with them. But opportunity had to be in balance with risk. Ignore the former, and you would never amount to anything; ignore the latter, and you would rush headlong into your undoing.

There had been an opportunity with Maelys Blackfyre, and so he'd bet on the man and so rose from apparatchik to Archon virtually overnight.

But the times had changed. The pulse of war was a quicker beat than business, but it was a pulse he had a feel for all the same. Suddenly, he risked everything he'd gained continuing to side with Maelys, so when Velaryon requested to parley, Alequo sensed opportunity.

His bodyguard, an adept of Lorath's school of the sixteen scythes, slammed his steel pole on the marble flooring once, twice. The sound did not reverberate so much given the many open windows through which spears of natural light entered. "Presenting, the emissary of Lord Lelouch Velaryon, Heir of Driftmark and the Driftwood Throne, Mayor Cici of the Free Myrish."

The "emissary" walked past the double doors of steel and crossed the hall of tall marble columns, each painted a different color.

_What in all the gods was a mayor? And a woman? Not even that, a girl? That changes things. _Alequo frowned, sending away most of the serving girls clad in red lace that left nothing to the imagination. _Well, if women won't work, wine will._

Alequo leaned into his chair, an elegant high-backed thing carved from a now extinct blackwood variant. "The former Archon," he began, "told me this chair was shipped from Asshai's shadowlands, centuries ago when things still grew in those places."

He spotted a glimmer of amusement in her eye. "It's aged better than him," the green-haired woman said in a tongue pleasantly familiar to him.

_Was she Tyroshi or just well-taught?_ "The man liked his pear brandy too much. The drink does terrible things to your skin," he said, slapping the arms of his chair shaped like dragonheads and gesturing for her to sit. "Have you ever tried it?"

A servant approached on cue with a bottle, aged since the bumper harvest half a century prior. She set down two cups of pure gold, heavy enough to cave a man's skull in if you threw it right, before pouring the strong-smelling, off-white liquor.

"Yes, but not a bottling of this quality," she said.

"A toast then," Alequo said, raising the impractical cup with some effort, though he hid it well, "to opportunity."

"To opportunity," Cici said, taking the cup like it weighed nothing and sipping from it. She didn't grimace to her credit, though he did see her assess the serving girl's assets for a brief moment before averting her eyes.

_Something there I can use perhaps?_ "So you are emissary to the Velaryons," Alequo said. "A well-respected family in Westeros, and not a name unknown to me, but Tyrosh is at war with the Iron Throne. What right does your lord have to bargain with me? What assurances have I he can even keep to any terms discussed here."

"The talks will take place within the week, face-to-face," Cici said.

He'd expected anger, as was often the case when one pricked at the all too sensitive pride of the sunsetlanders. He'd expected amusement perhaps, or threats to walk out. Alequo had not expected his question would be ignored. "Will it now? I don't recall agreeing to anything."

"Oh, forgive my rudeness, Archon," Cici said. "Allow me to present my gift first."

Alequo blinked. "What?"

"My gift," she repeated, slowly enunciating the words this time, like he was a particularly dull child. "It is customary among the sunsetlanders to exchange them for talks between friends."

"Friends?" he repeated incredulously. "I wasn't aware your lord held me in such high regard after he savaged my ships."

"Savaged your ships? No such thing happened, though I hear pirates have been a menace since the war started," Cici lied. "And of course my lord sees you as his friend. Why else would he be keeping his ships so close to your island, if not to protect it from armed bands of marauding sea thieves?"

She dropped a bag she was holding on the table, and slid it towards him. It was damp to the touch. Alequo peeked at it, and suppressed his grimace. A human head—not Tyroshi, too clean shaven—wrapped in a dozen layers of Tyroshi purple flags taken from captured ships. "I've never tried this _delicacy_," Alequo said. "Is it common among your people?"

"Oh quite, but not for eating," Cici said, folding her hands on her lap.

Alequo pushed the head to the side with a finger, and wiped his hand on a cotton cloth sitting on the table. "So, whose head does this belong to, and why should I care?"

Her eyes hardened into something fierce and she showed him teeth; predatory and domineering and dangerous. "Are we done with the foreplay already? The man's name, well, it honestly doesn't matter. He's dead. All you need to know is that the pirate was found guilty by his peers."

"A pirate tried by pirates," Alequo said drily. "What was he guilty of?"

"Officially? Greed," Cici said.

"And unofficially?"

"He overreached, and he had the wrong parents," Cici said.

Alequo laughed. "I suppose if greed alone was worth murdering people over, all the lords of Westeros would be dead."

"Lelouch has called for a stop to the raids on Tyroshi shipping," she said.

_Ah, and our headless friend did not comply,_ Alequo thought. An end to the raids… that would be one of many boons they were willing to offer him for peace. It would not hurt to hear them out. "The talks will take place within the week, face-to-face, you said. It will have to be on neutral ground."

"There is no neutral ground," she said. "Unless you want to hold these talks in land Blackfyre controls, though I doubt you would. If you're caught in the act, the danger he poses to you outstrips anything else."

"It should be in Tyrosh then," he countered, knowing well they'd never agree. "Maelys will never be able to reach us here." Not that he could unless he sprouted wings suddenly. The Lyseni hinterlands Maelys was subjugating were too far for him to reach Tyrosh in time, but she didn't know that.

"Maelys would never be able to reach you at Bloodstone or any other island for that matter," Cici said.

"Tyrosh has high walls to hide behind," Alequo said.

"Tyrosh also has magisters who'd sell you out to Maelys with a smile, and offer their own wives as consorts to boot. We are not entirely unfamiliar with your current _predicament_. It will have to be in the countryside of Averillys," Cici said, counting with her fingers. "It's far enough from Blackfyre's lands, still within Tyrosh's sphere but not _too _much, and close enough to the shore for Lelouch to reach."

Averillys made a lot of sense, but… "If your lord's victories are anything to go by, each man of his must be worth twice that of Tyrosh. I should be allowed twice the guards to feel safe."

"The fault lies not in your fighting men, but in their commanders," she retorted.

...he couldn't call himself a merchant if he didn't haggle. That's where all the fun was.


	21. Peace

**Chapter 21: Peace**

Nearly two weeks after the Battle Beneath the Storm, Lelouch had ordered his men to deny their enemy Pryr through any means before they abandoned the island. Corwyn had said nothing at first, but Lelouch could tell he was bothered by it. It was only at Bloodstone, in the privacy of his tent, that his brother finally came to him.

"Something's on your mind," Lelouch said, looking up from the letter he'd just finished to Corwyn seated across him. "You've been sitting there for the past half hour in total silence."

"Your woman is still here," his brother said.

"Ignore her then," Lelouch said.

"Fine. The slighting I understand," Corwyn said. "It had to be done if we cannot hold the place, lest Tyrosh further fortifies it and our men die for that mistake. But to leave corpses in wells or unburied… the gods would be displeased."

"War is an ugly thing, Corwyn. The monsters we tell our children of at night—the ones we say no longer walk among us—they come to life here," Lelouch said, pressing a finger to his own chest.

"They come to life if we choose it," Corwyn said. "We all have a choice to make. Though it is the nature of war to be cruel and violent, from these dark times do honorable acts have weight."

Lelouch smiled. "I see Lord Hightower has taught you well in matters beyond the joust. I'd feared the splendor of those Reach knights too blinding."

"Father would not have fostered me with Lord Leyton if he thought him a fool."

"Where father fostered you depends less on what he thinks of the man than what he could gain from it," Lelouch said. "That Lord Leyton was wise is fortunate, but he could've been duller than a craven's sword and it would not have mattered. The Hightowers are undoubtedly great lords of the realm, second only to Lords Paramount in prominence, and not even all of them. Ask any hedge knight in Westeros and nine out of ten would rather be in Oldtown than Sunspear or Pyke. Leyton's uncle too serves as a white cloak of the king."

Corwyn opened his mouth, then paused, frowning. "You're deflecting."

"Am I?" Lelouch tilted his head. "Humor me a while longer if you would. Why are we at war? Answer plainly, this is no trick."

"Because the king commands it," Corwyn said, "and as his sworn bannermen, we need honor our oaths, just as he keeps his to us. Honor for fealty, reward for service, justice for obedience."

"What men ought to do, and what men actually do are two very different things," Lelouch said.

"If we do not keep to our oaths, would our knights and men-at-arms not think to themselves the same? Why should they serve us if our words are wind?"

Lelouch shook his head. "Right, yet wrong."

"How can something be right _and_ wrong?" Corwyn furrowed his brows. "Those are mutually exclusive."

"Yes and no," Lelouch said, grinning as his brother's face twisted further. "You'll find that a great many things in the world refuse to be as maesters say they should be. But to return to the point: why has King Jaehaerys commanded us to make war then?"

"Blackfyre threatens to bring war and rape to all of Westeros," Corwyn said. "He cannot be Protector of the Realm if he does not protect the realm."

"And protecting the realm is a just and honorable thing to do, something the gods approve of?"

Corwyn nodded, though there was hesitation there.

"Fresh water is everything to an island, as you should know. If we leave Pryr merely slighted, Tyrosh has the means to more quickly restore their harbor if we leave the water untouched. That strengthens Tyrosh's position, and makes the threat of Maelys Blackfyre's crossing more likely," Lelouch said. "So what do the gods prefer we do? Protect the realm or respect the dead?"

"Both. We can protect the realm _while _respecting the dead," Corwyn said with crossed arms.

"Stop torturing your brother, Lelouch," Cici said, lounging as she always did on his bed. "Cynicism comes with age, but ideals are harder to find past youth. You should understand that better than anyone."

"Are _you_ calling me old?" Lelouch asked, not turning around to look at her.

"It's all relative," Cici said cheekily.

"Why do you let this woman of yours speak to you so freely?" Corwyn asked.

Lelouch sealed his letter with a wax seal before calling for the guard outside to deliver it. "Hand this to Maester Beric, for King's Landing."

The guard saluted and left.

"Cici is hardly mine," Lelouch said.

"More yours than anyone else's," Cici said. "It's not been a year and you're already trying to get rid of me. What's a woman to do? Woe is me. Woe."

He ignored her. "And I let her do as she pleases, because I couldn't stop her if I wanted to. There is no greater mistake for a lord than an order that won't be followed," Lelouch continued. "Now, who among our lords and bannermen perished in the battle?"

Cici sighed.

"Lord Wells and Ser Morren," Corwyn said immediately, "three knights in service to House Harrock, one from the Goodchaits and… uh, the Bryne boy?"

"Ser Beren is alive. They merely found him unconscious, but he's since recovered," Lelouch corrected. "With Lord Wells' passing, who is now Lord of Evendim Ridge?"

Corwyn did not answer at once, then after a minute's contemplation shook his head. "I don't know."

"Lord Wells had only a daughter, Arra. She married Dorren Wells of Queenscrown four years prior, a distant cousin of hers from the north who now serves as Lord Wells' castellan," Lelouch said.

"Is Lord Dorren in line for a lordship in the north?" Corwyn asked.

_He's asking questions, good._ "Fourth or fifth in the inheritance. Not likely to come to pass," Lelouch said.

"I suppose he wouldn't have been sent south if he were," mused Corwyn. "It should be him then. That Lord Jon made Dorren his castellan and gave him his daughter's hand should make clear his intent. Confirm him as lord, and let their son squire with you, or a daughter as mother's lady-in-waiting."

Lelouch nodded. "What of Ser Morren then? He served faithfully as father's master-at-arms for years. He has a son and a younger brother, Ser Manren."

"Both seem too untested to be made the new master-at-arms," Corwyn said. "We find opportunities for them to prove themselves first. The son… perhaps a ship of his own if he's so inclined, and for Ser Manren a minor command in the near future."

_Very good_.

Lelouch continued to bring up each of the fallen by rank, probing Corwyn's thoughts on how honors might be allocated that would leave everyone happy. Ten dragons as weregild paid for each of their dead smallfolk—far too generous, five was plenty, but being seen as open-handed was important for a lord.

The sun was at its lowest when they'd finished and Corwyn left to sup with their men, still deep in thought.

"You're harder on him than usual," Cici said.

"He's my brother. I want him to make something of himself," Lelouch said.

"You're preparing him for a lordship, _your _lordship," Cici said. "You think you might die and soon."

"No," Lelouch said. "I might need him to rule in my stead, but I'm not so eager to leave you alone again. My successes have made me impossible to ignore once the war ends, and father's health is poor. Should he pass, it is probably I shall replace him in King's Landing and I will need someone my men will listen to during times of peace. Weren't you the one who told me I need not do everything myself?"

"I guess your brother isn't the only one who can learn. You've picked up some new tricks," Cici said, standing up. "The Battle Beneath the Storm? Used to be you contented yourself to triggered volcanoes and landslides. Disasters, yes, but ones you controlled."

"I'm rather short on _trained _witches at the moment, wench," Lelouch said drily. "What was it you said to me at Myr? Try water next?"

She shrugged. "You kept setting every alight, then brooding about it. Besides, this hardly counts as using water. It's a storm, and the wind would've caused those ships to capsize more than the waves."

"There's just no pleasing you."

"You're not a pizza," she said. "So, Blackfyre's crossing. You want to nip that in the bud."

"Best to be sure," Lelouch said. "I've planned some skirmishes to put the pressure on Tyrosh."

"But merely pressure," Cici said. "You want to bring them to the table, talk peace. Alequo Adarys works with the man who took your uncle."

"He did, and I want him back, but the war must end on our terms before that's possible," Lelouch said. "We besiege Tyrosh, it'll be years before it falls. We turn them, and Maelys' allies will see the cracks clear as day."

"Divide and conquer," Cici said, licking her lips, "Taking them one _slice _at a time."

"Is everything about pizzas with you? That was rhetorical, don't answer that," Lelouch added quickly, already knowing the answer when she grinned. "Adarys is a merchant. All we need to do is make this war unprofitable for him, then offer an alternative."

"You sound certain."

"Nothing's certain in war," he said. _But one Archon or another, Tyrosh will be my ally. _

**-ZeroRequiem-**

There were three targets that presented themselves, and Tyrosh's much diminished fleet could not hope to defend all of them at any given day, or risk being outnumbered. First, the Essosi coastline, which would most likely be patrolled after Averillys' slave revolt. Second, Pryr, which had so recently been attacked.

Third, Tyrosh itself.

Lelouch's scouts had glimpsed the fleet they'd sent after the Battle Beneath the Storm through Myrish far-eyes made by the finest lenscrafters in all the Free Cities… or so Magister Zoutos claimed.

Myr _was_ still recovering from Lashare's coup, and many shops and tools were damaged in the fighting. Only recently had the privateers started returning with looted Myrish wares from the high seas. Whatever the case, there was at least some truth to his words as the things far outstripped anything Tyrosh had on hand to spot them from a distance.

Given recent events, it only made sense that Tyrosh would not be so keen leaving the first two targets undefended, and Tyrosh had strong fortifications that it couldn't be easily taken.

But he didn't need to _seize _the city to start a panic.

Lord Dylar Wendwater led their fleet on the first raid and smashed three Tyroshi patrol galleys, had the men jeer at the city, then left. On the second day, Lord Qarlton Stokesworth was ordered to scout the shoreline of any ships that no doubt would've been scrambling home. Third was Lord Josua Bar Emmon on a daring attack at Pryr, then Quiet Duram of Rosby tested it again.

Now that Tyrosh knew they were willing to hit any of the three targets and hit them repeatedly, it became a sea shell game with the Driftmark fleet as the pea. Rather unfortunately for them, Lelouch cheated better than a Pentoshi swindler.

It became ritual each day to stand at the docks and honor two among the highborn with command for the day's raids. Each would have a score of ships, three thousand good men, and a different target in mind. They'd then scope it out with their own Myrish far-eye, and if the conditions were favorable, attack. The odds were good one of them would find something to wreck.

Ser Symon Hollard stepped forward with his offering first, waiting to be addressed.

"Your catch, Ser Hollard?" Lelouch asked.

"Two purple banners, Lord Velaryon," Symon said, "taken from the war galleys _Sapphire _and _Sunset_ before they sunk."

"Finely done, good ser. We've not caught two since the first sennight," Lelouch said, turning his eyes to the crowd. "Are there any here today who will best Ser Symon's catch?"

There was a roaring and thumping of chests and stomping of feet.

"Ser Manren Tallfield," Lelouch said, "your brother fought fiercely at Pryr and won us great glory. Will you lead the first of our ships on this day?"

"Yes, my lord. Thank you," Manren said, stepping forward to accept a ceremonial ivory scroll Lelouch had bought off Lysandro.

_As for the second, has to be a crownlander. One of the smaller hosts, but with some experience at sea._ Lelouch thought. "Ser Torgar Celtigar, the honor of onyx scroll is yours."

"My thanks, Lord Velaryon. I'll see our enemies smashed against the rocks today!" Torgar said.

"Then go forth, my lords, and bring home their banners," Lelouch said.

There was cheering, applause, and a few disappointed groans from the assembly of lordlings and knights, but they clapped nonetheless. At the rate things were going, each man knew their turn for glory would come sooner rather than later.

As the morning ritual ended, the highborn dispersed like a swarm of locusts, going every which way to empty the harbor of men into their ships, then emptying the harbor of ships into the sea.

From the corner of his eye, Lelouch spotted Cici's crown of green hair headed for him, coming from gods know where. "You've a guest coming," she said. "The speared sun of Sunspear, and another white cloak with him, the red salmon."

"How far off?" Lelouch asked.

"Not far," Cici said, tilting her head to the side, "but it might take them a while with one of them hobbling."

Lelouch blinked. Mooton had to have come from King's Landing and unless there was fighting there, that meant Lewyn was injured. "Oh very clever."

The witch preened. "I thought so. They're this way."

Like everything else about the city, Saintsport's "roads" were less the careful work of a stonemason and more just commonly trod dirt trails. One could tell which were the main throughways simply by observing how level the ground was.

As they moved through the nine-sided public square, Cici paused to greet the gravedigger who also doubled as a butcher. Lelouch raised his brow as a small sack of coins—silver coins he guessed by their high-pitched _cling_-ing—changed hands.

"I think you'll be pleased, m'lady," the grave-butcher said. "Found cha' a real nice head, 'n did like ya asked."

"Wonderful," Cici said. "What'd he do?"

"Tried ta stab Cap'n Mercy over a whore last night," he said. "Bloody fool. I'll bring cha' the head tonight."

"Excellent, please do," Cici said.

"Do I want to know?" Lelouch asked.

"You're very forgetful in your advanced age," she said. "I need a gift to bring the Archon of Tyrosh tomorrow. It's customary in Westeros for a host to be given gifts by his guests, is it not?"

"Sometimes," Lelouch said. _A head though? She has a story planned for it, has to be, and Alequo won't know the difference. But what lie to tell? Threat? _"It's not observed so frequently."

"We need to show our new friend how seriously we take this matter," Cici said.

_No, a threat would not scare Alequo to the table any more than the defeats we've inflicted on him already. A promise then, to tempt him to treat. A cease to the raids—all raids, if peace and common cause is found. _Lelouch nodded.

She grinned as they reached the speared son of Sunspear and his companion.

"Greetings, Ser Mooton, Prince Lewyn," Lelouch said, nodding to each in turn, before gesturing to Lewyn's pierced leg. "I had hoped to find you in better health. What has come to pass?"

"Scarwood fell easily to us, _too_ easily, and we grew bold," Lewyn said, scowling. "The prince was permitted to take to the field at Guardian Island, but the fighting turned fierce. We were cut off, Ser Redfort was felled, and I took a spear in defense of His Grace, before we could rejoin the main host."

"Prince Aerys is unharmed?" Lelouch asked with a tinge of worry.

"He is," Lewyn said.

Lelouch sighed. "I thank the Seven for that, and you as well, Prince Lewyn. I suppose Ser Mooton is here to replace Ser Redfort then?" Lelouch asked.

"Among _other_ things," Mooton said. "I've a message for you."

_From the king_ went unspoken. A kingsguard messenger meant discretion was sought, but also that he had tacit approval from the Iron Throne. "Cici, you know what to do."

"Guess I'll be needing that head sooner than I thought," she said, walking off.

"I found your victory at the Battle Beneath the Storm most commendable. I see your father has taught you well," the king said though it sounded of Mooton's gravelly voice. "As for the other matter you brought up, it is a daring proposal, but perhaps daring is what we need now."

"I'm confident he can be brought to our way of thinking," Lelouch said, taking care not to name names in public.

"You understand," Mooton said, "that if this fails…"

"It will be on my head and no one else's," Lelouch said. No doubt the letter he'd sent had been burned by now to ensure there was no proof the king knew. If Lelouch failed, he'd be disavowed as having negotiated without the king's leave. Disgraced and shut out of power, but he'd keep his life probably. "If I succeed…"

"You would have changed the course of this war," Mooton said. "I am not blind to your contributions."

"Thank you, Ser Mooton," Lelouch said. "You should be by His Grace's side now."

"I think you're right," he said, leaving Lelouch and Lewyn alone.

"That was certainly cryptic," Lewyn said. "You understood every word of that?"

"Spoken and unspoken," Lelouch said. "You shouldn't be walking if you were sent back to heal."

Lewyn snorted. "Hypocrite. I saw you training several times with your injured hand. Besides, I get restless lying in bed all day."

"Do you? A shame that," Lelouch said.

"I may be injured," Lewyn said with an impish grin, "but I still prefer doing the spearing than being speared. Perhaps you'd like a taste now? I did promise you a spar."

"A different sort of spar for a different sort of war," Lelouch said.

"All spars are not so different," he said, then his face turned serious. "I came to you for more than that though, much as I'd enjoy it."

"Yronwood is in command with you gone," Lelouch said. It wasn't so hard a guess given the relative power of House Yronwood to the rest of the Dornish bannermen. "Is he doing well?"

"Better," Lewyn said. "It was him who saved us at Guardian and he leads a force to the Golden Haven while the rest of our armies sail for Redwater and Larazor's Rock. The pirates had quite a considerable stash of looted goods."

"Anything that stands out?"

"He intends to return with a tapestry from Lys spun from golden weave," Lewyn said. "You understand this cannot reach Her Grace unchallenged?"

_Because the Yronwoods would be too large a threat to his sister's rule with a royal marriage. _Lelouch nodded. "What I don't understand is why you told me and not Ronnel Arryn." _Or any of Rhaella's other suitors. _

"You're the better choice," he said. "and Dorne needs friends beyond Dorne."

**-ZeroRequiem-**

Despite the truce leading up to the talks, the sennight passed in the blink of an eye.

When Lelouch first made camp at Bloodstone, it had been a loving, laborious reconstruction of the works of Old Ghis and their lockstep legions. The earthen walls and wooden palisade, the perimeter watchtowers, the neat squares and rectangles of tents and pavilions—no detail had been overlooked ensuring his camp would be an exemplary testament to order and efficiency.

Then everything changed when the main host arrived. Baratheon's stratagem of a lightning war demanded short term speed over long term efficiency; so the camp mutated like a Mantarian, growing odds and ends, mutating to accommodate numbers it was never meant to, _deforming_ itself.

With most of the army away, Cici busy with the Tyroshi magisters, and his men idle, it was as if the gods wanted him to set things to right.

The walls were expanded, latrines dug, and proper spacing for the roads seen to. And to make sure his work did not go to waste the moment Lelouch left for the talks, he'd even planted flags and markers where each region should encamp.

"Don't you worry your pretty little head. I'll keep your camp in order and make sure the lords don't trample over those pretty straight lines you've drawn," Lewyn said before Lelouch embarked on the _Seafyre_. "Speaking of your pretty little head, are you sure you've brought enough men to keep yours pretty and on your head?"

Lelouch glanced at the flotilla of ten assembled to depart, of which only the _Seafyre_ and the _Saltbreaker_ would beach. Along with the _Season of Tides _that had accompanied Cici and Alequo to the strip of coast near Averillys, that made for only three ships and some one hundred men-at-arms, retainers, and courtiers. Tyrosh had been bargained down to just bringing two score more armed men than Westeros in recognition of the fact that they would have to prepare the location and to assuage their fears of another highly unlikely slave uprising.

It also helped if Alequo thought them weak barterers for what was to come.

"My men will be in full plate and hauberks, while his wear hauberks or brigandine," Lelouch said. "At the table itself will be six people, and none of the Tyroshis sitting will have trained with the blade. Should this be an ambush, I'll survive it, and all men will know what faithless men reside in Tyrosh."

"Fair winds to you then," Lewyn said, stretching out his arm. "Or as your sailors like to say: tides take you where it flows."

They clasped arms, and then Lelouch left.

From Saintsport to Averillys took the better part of two days. Two days where Donnall tested his steel against him, taking breaks only to face Corwyn too. His cousin proved the better sword still, though Lelouch could keep him barely checked with his spear.

Finally, the coast came into view on the second day, with a few hours of light left.

The eyes of every lord were drawn to the Rainbow Pavilion just beyond the sandy beach, fit to host a hundred men of noble stock and all that that entailed, while lesser tricolored pavilions dotted around it. The place teemed with well-dressed—which is to say, barely dressed—slave women, all fine and fair and sizable assets. They cooked and cleaned; danced and sang under the kiss of a warm spring.

"Splendid!" Josua said.

The worn silks were rather obsolete however you sliced it. If it was to protect their modesty, you'd have to gouge out the eyes of every man present. If it was to tempt them, Alequo should have left the women naked for all the goods their clothes did them. Wet with sweat, silk and cotton were the same.

If they'd disrobed already, at least that'd save them from having to rip their clothes off.

_Though I suppose some men enjoy that part too_, Lelouch thought.

"I mislike this," Donnall murmured. "Bright and colorful trinkets blinding us to lurking danger."

"There is no danger," Lelouch said, pointing to the Seahorse and Dragon banners fluttering.

"A message?" Donnall asked.

Lelouch nodded. "From Cici. If she wanted me to flee, she'd have flown the Seahorse and the Ship of Myr."

"I still don't like it."

"Good," Lelouch said. "You might be the only man besides me to keep his wits about him. We'll be drowning in bastards by nightfall."

Donnall spat to the side. "Where do you want me?"

"By my side," Lelouch said.

"Why? You're the talker between us. I just swing the sword."

"I need a third."

"There are plenty of other lords more important," Donnall said. "Even your brother would be better if you wished to keep the glory among kin."

Lelouch shook his head. "Corwyn's head is full of songs and he's grown high with the Hightowers. Mayhaps he's grown their pride too? That's a weapon Alequo will wield like a knife to our back, if we let him. No, it has to be you, cousin. I trust no one else with what will be said, to keep quiet in spite of provocation, and to keep both eyes _open_."

"I'm with you, wherever you need me," Donnall said.

"Just like old times, eh?"

Donnall grinned. "Just like old times."

Before they left the ship and headed for the Rainbow Pavilion, Lelouch pulled Corwyn to the side.

"When you have sex," Lelouch started.

"Brother!"

"When you have sex," he said, sterner this time, "you will make sure the girls drink their moontea, and that you don't get too drunk that you forget."

"Do you think so lowly of me?" Corwyn said.

"You're nearly a man at fifteen," Lelouch said. "I've been around seamen long enough to know what that means."

Corwyn crossed his arms. "They're lowborn."

"They have cocks same as you," Lelouch said, "or are you Baelor the Blessed come again?"

"It—"

"I don't care how many times you swear it won't happen or to which gods you swear them to," Lelouch said. "You plant your seed in one of these flowers and I'll have to explain to father why you married a Tyroshi slave."

Corwyn wilted. "It would be the honorable thing to do…"

"That's always what men say after they've made a mistake," Lelouch said.

"How would you know it would be a mistake? I could come to love one of these maidens."

Donnall snorted. "You don't even speak proper Valyrian, nevermind the bastard shrieking this sorry lot uses."

"I could learn it."

"Three years with Maester Banneth and you didn't pick up a single word of Valyrian. Somehow, I doubt it," Lelouch said.

"Fine, fine! If I sleep with a girl, I promise to make them drink moontea after, now will you _please_ go?" Corwyn said.

They disembarked.

Cici stood alone among the Tyroshi delegates and the swarm of poisonous flowers.

"Welcome, my lords," said a man with a pink beard with purple stripes cutting it diagonally. "Your voyage must have left you weary. Please, partake of the fruits Tyrosh has to offer." At his word, the flowers swayed forward—

—Donnall stretched his arm out, palm first, and they stumbled to a stop. Or perhaps it was the way he gripped his sword like a coiled snake that made them hesitate?

Lelouch kept silent, glancing at Pink Beard, the women, and then resting his gaze on Cici expectantly.

Her eyes twinkled. "Presenting Lord Lelouch of the House Velaryon, the Seafyre, the Stormcaller, Protector of the Myrish-in-Exile, the Master-in-Fact of Driftmark, Knight of the Crown Prince, Captain of a Hundred Ships, Leader of Ten Thousand Men, and a Principal Commander of the Host of Westeros."

A good mix of titles and cognomen highlighting his victories and his responsibilities, while avoiding any mention of being _heir_ to anything. That would put his authority to negotiate in greater scrutiny, and he had no proof for Adarys but his word and reputation.

"Of course, be welcome, honored one," said Pink Beard.

"I've come to bargain," Lelouch said in Common. Cici repeated his words in the Myrish-Valyrian dialect. "Where is Alequo Adarys, the Archon of Tyrosh?"

"He is in his tent still," the Tall Man said in a rough accent Lelouch couldn't place. He didn't look like a man of Leng or YiTi, perhaps from a smaller city to the north? "I am Captain Maz Aleximar, Captain of the Last Sons of Sarnor, in the service of Tyrosh."

"My thanks, Captain Aleximar," Lelouch said, tilting his head by a fraction to show acknowledgment but not enough that they'd think to have _deference _from him. "I will be waiting in the Rainbow Pavilion for the talks to commence."

Pink Beard cleared his throat. "We had thought to hold the talks on the morrow, when we've all had a chance to rest."

Lelouch raised his brow at him, and walked off. He heard Cici respond, "We can rest when we're dead," before she fell into step besides him. There were barked orders to the women and the scurrying feet of hurried messengers.

"How was your week?" Lelouch asked.

"Pleasant," Cici said. "The warm flower baths of Tyrosh are to die for after months of camping."

"I'm sure," Lelouch said, then tugged at his ear. _Is anyone listening in?_

"Clear," Donnall said.

"You'll be my translator throughout," Lelouch said.

"And you boys will play the sword and the lord," Cici said. "I've had words with the opposition. There are those who would welcome a new Archon."

"Let's call that the wildfire option," Lelouch said. An Archon installed through foreign force of arms would be no more legitimate than Adarys, but without the tenure. The Tyroshi wouldn't take kindly to more meddling in their internal affairs. "Who am I speaking with?"

"Other than Adarys? Pink Beard is a yes man of his," Cici said.

"Ignorable save as a mouthpiece then. Their third?"

"Magister Sarys, who speaks for Alequo's most powerful enemies," Cici said. "If they do not buy in to what is agreed here, neither can Adarys."

"His hold is that tenuous?" Lelouch asked.

She tilted her head. "You did your job too well."

Donnall leaned in. "The Tall Man is trailing us. If it comes to a fight, he's got a reach advantage on me."

"Aleximar is a nasty fighter," Cici said, "unconstrained by silly rules and dangerously pragmatic. I'm not too good with their tongue, but he passes as a lord among the Sarnori from what I've gathered. He won't break truce though, sets a dangerous precedent.

"Especially in Essos," Lelouch said.

They entered the Rainbow Pavilion smelling of roast pheasant and suckling pig. The grease and spices made for a heady aroma, a fat man's poison that would take twenty years to seize you.

Maz Aleximar entered after them and approached. "Forgive me. I had to speak with you myself. You are Lord Seafyre," he said in a halting Volantene dialect.

Lelouch glanced at Cici. "He thinks Seafyre is your name," she said.

"I'm just a man like any other," Lelouch said and she translated.

"Not like any other," Maz said. "You are a warlock, a powerful one."

"I wield no magic," Lelouch said. "Cut me and I'll bleed. Stab me, I'll die."

He narrowed his eyes. "How could I come after you? You would drown me with storms. Burn me with green fire. Steal even my thoughts."

"If you believe me so powerful, then why stand before me at all?" Lelouch asked.

"Because I need to know if the gods have sent you as friend or foe to my men," Maz said. "If I do not do this, who will?"

Lelouch felt a stirring in his soul, a common kinship with this man standing over seven feet tall. "If the king does not lead, how can we expect his subordinates to follow?"

Maz smiled. "So you do understand."

"What have the gods told you?" Lelouch asked.

"I am no prophet that they speak to me. Merely a man," Maz said.

"Taller than any man I've seen," Lelouch said.

"A Sarnori man then," Maz said with a nod. "Humble your heart, for the gods bring down low those who overreach, Warlock." He took up a spot on the opposite side of the high table, standing watch without a sword.

"They found a loophole," Lelouch said to Cici. "Only our men would be armed, but with a man like that on their side, he could use this whole damned table as a weapon."

"Are you complaining?" Cici asked.

"That this finally became interesting?" Lelouch said. "Never."

There was a sharp burst of bustle as the pavilion's entrance flapped open, and Alequo Adarys entered with his delegates.

Like everything about the talks, their seating was predetermined. Lelouch was led to the side of the table facing east and was seated in the center, while Adarys sat opposite him. Next was Pink Beard seated on Adarys' right, across from Cici, and finally Donnall and Sarys took up the last spots.

When all were seated, a crier was brought in to announce each in turn, beginning with Adarys as the host. Among his honorifics were "Sovereign of the Unified Stepstones", "Guardian of the Twin Straits of Tyrosh", and "Archpatron of the Verdant Heel", each of which would've sent a Lyseni, Braavosi, and Myrman into a frothing rage were any to be found present.

Cici chose the simpler "Mayor of Myr-In-Exile and the Mistress of Pizza" and Donnall was given, to his visible chagrin, "the First Sword of the Seafyre".

Pink Beard, real name Magister Kalamnys Paryen, was the self-proclaimed Master of Ships for his ownership over a plurality of shipwrights. His profits had swelled greatly by Alequo's military contracts. It did not pass Lelouch's notice Paryen held a title that his father did, and all that that implied of his own position.

_They think me less than Alequo's second._

Magister Sarys, on the other hand, was the Many-colored Man despite his rather plain, by Tyroshi standards, yellow beard. He had significant holdings in the dye trade.

Lelouch gestured for Cici to lean in. "My High Valyrian is rather rusty, but is Adarys not king?"

The corner of her lips tugged upwards. "Lord Lelouch wishes to know if the Archon is a king with a name like Adarys."

The mere mention of kings made even Kalamnys fidget, while Sarys outright scowled.

"I am no king," Alequo said quickly. "It is true my family name is derived from the ancient _darys_ which means king, but _adarys_ is more accurately translated to 'like a king' or 'a man of wealth and power'. A magnate, if you will."

"Tyrosh has no _kings_," Sarys said with gritted teeth.

"Ah, my mistake. I saw some similarities, is all. I hope I did not cause offense," Lelouch said, utterly without remorse. It was a cheap blow, an easy blow, and he was playing to win.

"The first order of business," Alequo said, ignoring his apology, "is a matter of authority."

_Here comes the parry, _Lelouch thought.

"Are you not here in your capacity as Archon?" Cici asked.

"He is, but it is Lord Lelouch's authority that Tyrosh questions," Kalamnys said.

"The matter was settled before we left Tyrosh," Cici said. "If there was a shred of doubt left, you would've never agreed to these talks."

"I agreed to hold a feast for my fine friends from the west, as you called them," Alequo said. "Let it not be even whispered that Tyrosh's hospitality was lacking. But if the outcome of these talks are to have any worth, the Iron Throne must be behind you."

"It's rather difficult to move it, but we could arrange," Lelouch said, eyes hardening, "to have these talks across the sea with the Iron Throne behind me, if you really prefer it that way."

"He's daft," Kalamnys muttered in a Lorathi dialect that shared little with its southern bastard cousins. The man would've been right to assume no Westerosi would know the tongue given

how little trade Lorath had, but Cici was no Westerosi.

She leaned in close and repeated Kalamnys' words in a breath.

Lelouch smiled brightly at him and Kalamnys returned it.

"Does your king know of these talks? " Alequo asked.

"He does," Lelouch said.

"But have you any proof?" Kalamnys asked. "A letter or perhaps the messenger, provided the man was of high repute?"

"The letter I do not have on me. I did not think my _honor_ would be questioned when we agreed on this," Lelouch spat out, palms pressing against the table. "As for the messenger, he is not known to you, but he had other duties to see to like the safety of my future king."

"So in truth, you have no proof," Kalamnys said with a raised finger.

"War has been a scourge in all its forms." Lelouch pushed himself up. "Have not enough good Tyroshi men died for you to see that? Have not enough fathers lost sons, and wives lost husbands? If there is a fraction of a chance, nay a _fraction_ of a fraction of chance that what takes place here can put an end to so great an evil, should we not seize it with both hands? This is an opportunity we cannot ignore."

"I admire your passion," Sarys said at last, "but in business, I trust in logic, not passion. What good is peace if it does not last to see the morrow?"

"What good is your coin if we're all dead?" Donnall asked.

Cici looked to Lelouch searchingly, then she repeated the words.

Sarys narrowed his eyes. "Is that a threat?"

"I don't make threats," Donnall said. "I only do as I'm commanded."

Alequo raised his hand, and an angry silence descended on the table. He put down his hand, and looked Lelouch in the eye. "Some wine to soothe our spirits?"

The women outside were all fine bedwarmers without exception, but the ones that brought them the goblets of gold almost too heavy to lift were consorts fit for a king.

"Perhaps there is merit to peace, here and now," Alequo said as the wine was poured. "I _trust_ the Seafyre is a man of honor. It peace prevails, Tyrosh profits. If it lasts a sennight, it remains beneficial."

"Beneficial," Lelouch echoed, as he let his eyes linger on the silver haired maiden with a _dowry_ to match Genna Lannister. _It'd give the Archon a desperately needed reprieve, time to train men and refill his coffers. _

"Before we can even think of peace," Sarys said, "we must first address the titles used by the members of this august body."

To contest a title was to provoke ire, but to acknowledge them in a setting like this was an admission of their legality.

Kalamnys sipped from his cup and set it down with an audible thud. "Are you, in fact, Lord Lelouch of House Velaryon?"

"Is his identity in doubt?" Cici asked.

"No, not his identity," Kalamnys said. "Tell me, when did Lord Jaron Velaryon die that his heir uses his title freely and formally?"

"Lord Jaron remains alive and the Lord Velaryon," Cici said, "but in Westeros, it is called a _courtesy_ to let honored members of the family take on the styling of lord."

"So in truth, the title has no basis beyond courtesy?" Kalamnys asked.

"My father's health is poor as of late," Lelouch said. "I will be lord of my house soon enough."

"Soon enough? How long is that in days? Months?" Kalamnys asked.

Donnall's face scrunched in disgust. "You'd ask a son to guess his own father's death?"

"He can use years, if he likes, though in Essos we do not consider that 'soon enough'," Kalamnys said, twining his fingers in front of him. "No answer? We cannot acknowledge a title based on what might come to pass. That is called gambling, and gambling is no certainty."

_Got you_, Lelouch thought. "Acknowledge me as Ser Lelouch of House Velaryon then, for I am an anointed knight, given that title by the crown prince himself. You think I wear that title with any less pride?"

"I do not claim to know your feelings, Ser Lelouch of House Velaryon," Kalamnys said. "Now the Seafyre—"

"—you not only deny," Lelouch interjected, "that I will be the future lord of House Velaryon, you also deny things which have already been written into the annals of history? Did the Battle of Seafyre not occur? Did your defeat at Pryr beneath a storm not come to pass?"

"The events occurred, but the names they are called differ," Kalamnys said.

"I'm told by my translator even your marines call me by those names when my countrymen do not," Lelouch said, breath hot. "These are _Tyroshi given_ titles, but if you think so little of your own people, then I will call myself the Victor of Seafyre and the Battle Beneath the Storm."

Kalamnys leaned forward. "You may keep those honorifics then. As for the rest…"

"Statements of fact," Alequo said. "His father is too busy to run their demesne, and he protects the Myrish runaways. There is no need to haggle over these terms any longer unless you disagree, Magister Sarys?"

"The rest of his titles change little politically and I did not make my fortune wasting time," Sarys said.

"Then it's done with," Alequo said, offering him a warm smile. "Now, we were speaking of peace—"

_He must think so little of me_, Lelouch thought, _to think I'd believe Kalamnys not a mere puppet. _"We were speaking of titles," Lelouch said. "And if you are done with me, then it is your turn to face inquiry, Archon."

His smile faltered ever so slightly. "Are any of my titles in doubt?"

"Sovereign of the Unified Stepstones," Lelouch said. That title could not be acknowledged, not if the king had designs on the islands after the war. "My memory fails me at times. When was it last that the Stepstones were unified under Tyrosh?"

"That claim is inherited by Tyrosh from when the Valyrians still ruled," Kalamnys said with a frown.

"So over three and a half centuries ago, and under a different polity too," Lelouch said.

"We held dominion there too in 100 AC," Sarys said.

"As part of the Kingdom of the Three Daughters, of which you are only one," Lelouch said. "So you are, at best, Sovereign of a Third of the Stepstones. Ah, but how can that be? There are fourteen islands and you control only two. Sovereign of a Seventh of the Stepstones?"

Donnall drank deep from his cup. "It's not quite as catchy."

"When your war with Blackfyre is over," Alequo said, "you will leave and the pirates will return. It will be left to Tyrosh to bring order to these islands."

"How long will it take?" Lelouch asked.

Kalamnys exhaled loudly. "It will be soon."

Alequo winced, realizing the trap, but too late.

"Soon?" Lelouch asked skeptically. "How long is that in days and months, if you would."

"Are we prophets to know the future?" Kalamnys asked.

"You can use years, if you like, though in Essos, you do not consider that soon," Lelouch repeated. "No answer? We cannot acknowledge a title based on what might come to pass. That is called gambling, and gambling is no certainty."

"You could extend us the benefit of the doubt, like we did your other titles," Alequo said, though from the look of his face he'd surrendered the point.

"So in truth," Lelouch began, "the title would have no basis beyond courtesy? We will acknowledge that you believe you have a claim and no more."

Cici rested a hand on his arm. "There is also the Archpatron of the Verdant Heel to consider," she said first in Common, then in Tyroshi.

"I'm not familiar with this place," Lelouch said. "Is it known by any other name?"

Kalamnys gritted his teeth. "It is also called the Disputed Lands."

"Now that," Lelouch said, "is a name I know. But forgive me, is the Disputed Lands, as the name implies, not disputed?"

Kalamnys turned beet red, and though his mouth opened and closed, there was no sound to be heard. His hand grasped for his cup like a man craved air.

It was a grievous misstep to underestimate him, to think he was a boy who knew war, women, wine, and nothing else. He understood how this game was played too, for it was a war of words instead of swords, but a war all the same. They thought him _daft, _distracted by pretty things, so they pushed and pushed to poke at his pride, to force mistakes through his anger. Then Alequo would offer reprieve from the questioning and expect Lelouch to _thank him_ for it.

They should have heeded Maz's counsel. Greed was ever the downfall of men, and now the Archon would pay for it twice over.

"It is disputed as you say," Sarys answered. "The claim is shaky, but better than the Stepstones. We have at times ruled up to half of the lands, the most recent some three years prior."

"Then we will acknowledge it with one correction. To us, you are _an_ Archpatron of the Verdant Heel," Lelouch said.

Rapid staccato words were shared between the three men, but in the end they agreed. Faces visibly warier now, the conversation turned back to peace.

"If agreement is reached," Alequo said, "can we agree to the resumption of trade between our two lands and an end to open hostilities?"

Open hostilities, not _all_ hostilities. "We can," Lelouch said. "But my king would seek more than merely peace. We would have Tyrosh be our friend and our ally. Together, much might be accomplished and much can be given for faithful conduct."

"We have plenty of coin already," Kalamnys said, finally recovering from his stupor after several cups.

"There is more to life than coin," Lelouch said.

The Tyroshi delegates stared at him like he'd grown two heads. "It all comes back to coin in the end," Sarys said. "Slaves? To earn more coin. Swords? To protect your coin. Luxuries? To enjoy your coin."

"Then you could earn plenty more coin," Lelouch said. "Imagine what Tyrosh could accomplish with more than their hinterlands and Pryr."

"You bargain with what is not yours to give," Sarys said. "The Stepstones are not _yours_."

"It is Westerosi men who hold the islands and Westerosi ships that patrol their waters. Possession is nine-tenths of the law," Cici said.

"You'll have peace of us, and friendship too," Alequo said, "but alliance? I've already bled my city for one dragon. Why would I bleed it for one of a different shade? Red or black, this is a quarrel your people must settle among your own."

"I cannot change your mind?" Lelouch asked. "As a gesture, I will even reaffirm your claim over Pryr."

"We thank you, but no," Alequo said firmly. "You need us more than we need you."

Lelouch's brow rose. "I beg your pardon?"

Alequo blinked, then he grinned. "You have not heard? Lys has fallen to Maelys Blackfyre. His Golden Company sacked and held their hinterlands, while the Old Mother's fleet ravaged what ships carrying food roamed the sea. The Magisters of Lys surrendered rather than starve."

"Does that mean he marches back here?" Lelouch asked.

Alequo nodded. "I suspect your friends will fare no better than the last time you landed. If he reaches us before we come to an agreement, the war will resume."

That… that changed things.

"We must adjourn for nightfall," Kalamnys said. "Any talks of peace at night are talks the gods do not witness."

The delegates stood to leave, but as they did Cici whispered into his ear. "I've arranged a private audience with Magister Sarys after dinner."


	22. Interlude - In Our Time

**Chapter 22: Interlude - In Our Time**

"We underestimated the boy," Alequo said as they broke fast in the privacy of his tent. "He's proud, yes, but he knows his way around words. It'd be wise not to provoke him more than necessary today."

Kalamnys dabbed his mouth with a napkin. "As you say, Archon. What is our plan now?"

"Deflect," Alequo said, forking a pear, its juices spilling out. "We've gained the upper hand with news of Lys' fall and Blackfyre's imminent return. Now, we negotiate a peace from a position of strength, and avoid any further foreign entanglements. This war has been ruinous to our economy."

"Very wise," Kalamnys said. "The Old Mother's pirates are a scourge, but their skill at sea is without question. Their screen has kept the sunsetlanders from hearing such important news in a timely manner."

Alequo nodded. "Fortune has smiled on us, but now we must make the most of it."

Once a peace was signed, Tyrosh could begin its recovery, and its ascendance. No doubt Lys would take precious months restoring order to its hinterlands after Maelys and Old Mother has so thoroughly kept the city without food. There was a window of opportunity for Tyrosh to _assist_ their allies, especially in the most inland possessions of Lys where their hold was most loose. Old Mother was wise for a pirate, but she had not _ruled _before.

If she grew bored of it, there would be greater gains to be made. Perhaps he could be Archon of _two_ Free Cities?

_As for Maelys, he will prove a useful distraction_, Alequo thought. How many ships would he need to cross? Forty? Fifty? A number of disgruntled Tyroshi captains might find their way into his employ… a rogue fleet for a rogue king was fitting. Could he be blamed for lacking control over his city's fleet after the Seafyre had so viciously savaged them?

Helping the Golden Company land in Westeros would be buying two slaves for the price of one. Maelys and his band of sellswords would no longer be his concern, and the lands they'd seized in the Verdant Heel could be reclaimed. If Maelys succeeded, Tyrosh would gain a powerful ally in the west. If he died, the sunsetlanders would still be forced home from the now pacified Stepstones.

Braavos too seemed increasingly preoccupied with Norvos, Qohor, and Lorath. Even Pentos was helping finance the war against the Sealord covertly.

Who would be left to contest the Stepstones? Volantis? They could be reasoned with, perhaps even distracted with a word to Old Mother of their riches...

Opportunity was everywhere in this new age for Tyrosh.

The air was crisp and clean and seasoned with salt as they stepped outside of his tent when Captain Aleximar made himself known.

"What news?" Alequo asked the Tall Man.

"A swift stallion was dispatched last night," Aleximar said. "I think a message from Magister Sarys."

"To speak of our success no doubt," Kalamnys said. "His friends will despair when they hear of it."

"It was seen heading southeast," Aleximar said.

_Not to Tyrosh then_, Alequo mused.

"He has business interests all along the coast. It takes many men and ships to collect enough material for the dyes he makes," Kalamnys said.

A Swift Stallion going at a canter carrying nothing but a sword and a letter could reach Averillys in ten minutes, and the next city in another half hour. For the most urgent messages, those lean young men would change mounts at every way station, be replaced after seventy five miles, and ride day and night without halt.

It was said that word from the Tyroshi hinterlands could reach a man in Myr after only thirty hours.

"This matter does not concern me," Alequo said at last.

Aleximar bowed in the peculiar way of the Sarnori—both palms flat against one's chest, like a woman cupping her teats, and bowing from the waist. "As you say."

As they made their way to the Rainbow Pavilion, Alequo saw little of the sunsetlanders outside their tents.

"It seems our guests enjoyed themselves quite thoroughly last night," Kalamnys said, a tinge of amusement coloring his voice.

"Let them," Alequo said. _Let them bed as many women as they please if it leaves them blind and amiable. Let them fuck if it keeps them from seeing how fucked they are. _

"He did not join," Aleximar said in his broken bastard Valyrian. "Lord Seafyre."

"What of the women I sent to his tent?" Alequo asked, brows furrowing.

"The green woman sent them away," Aleximar said, then in a lower tone added, "I think she is his lover."

Gods willing, Lelouch Velaryon would be in a good mood today. It would make the talks _easier_, if no less inevitable. "Who the boy sleeps with does not matter," Alequo said.

They entered the Rainbow Pavilion smelling of summerwine, honeyfingers, and cakes made of every fruit. The mix of sweet and sour smells tickled his nose. Velaryon and his underlings were already seated at the table, the plates set before them untouched, while Magister Sarys chewed on finger-sized logs made of honey, pepper, cinnamon, and pine nuts.

"You make me seem like a poor host," Alequo said as he took his seat. "You arrive before me, and you do not touch your plates. Is the food not to your liking? We can have something else made for you if you prefer."

"Tyrosh is not lacking in anything," added Kalamnys.

"We're eager to resume negotiations," the green-haired girl said.

"On an empty stomach?" Alequo asked. "That won't do. Affairs of state will be seen to after the affairs of men are satisfied. Now, what will it be?"

"A Myrish pie, if you have them," the girl said and Velaryon's eye twitched, "and a plate of apple pudding for Ser Lelouch."

The other boy said something in Common and the translator added, "Just porridge for Donnall Waters."

They seemed content to wait in silence for their food to arrive, and when it arrived they ate at a pace more leisurely than he'd expected. _Strange_, Alequo thought. Perhaps they weren't so eager to restart the talks after all? He could understand it, though it was a mistake. Theirs was now the weaker hand, and time would only make it weaker, not stronger.

Finally, when the table was cleared and all present had settled with a drink of choice, the talks resumed.

"We have reconsidered our position," Velaryon said and his girl translated. "Peace in our time is a fine thing, but the Iron Throne would have more than peace if at all possible. We will recognize you as _the _Archpatron of the Verdant Heel if you would join us against the upstart Maelys Blackfyre."

Alequo smiled. Did they think for a moment he was someone else? That a few months in the office of the Archon would dull the keen edge that had brought low countless hagglers? "One does not excel in Essos without knowing the worth of your wares, and Tyrosh is not so cheaply bought," he said.

"What would it take then for you to make common cause with my king?" Velaryon asked.

_Name my price? Now that is a dangerous thing to give me_, Alequo thought with a smile. "I have not considered it. I came here to make peace, and I intend to leave having made peace with _all_ my friends and enemies."

Velaryon's knucles turned white. "Red or black, the shade doesn't seem to matter, so why _choose _Blackfyre over Targaryen?"

"I choose neither," Alequo said. "I choose Tyrosh, and what is good for Tyrosh is _peace_, whether it is with the red or the black."

"And what of after the war?" Velaryon asked, his voice growing tenser.

His translator did a marvelous job mimicking the raw _emotion_ that coated his words. Had she a

mummer's training?

"When," Velaryon continued, "not if, Blackfyre is defeated, do you think Westeros will forget you sided with its enemies, then refused to make amends?"

"I'll worry about it if, not when, Blackfyre is defeated," Alequo said. If the Iron Throne continued to meddle in Essosi affairs after all, it would bring the wrath of all the Free Cities on them. "I am not as convinced about your victory as you are. The Plains of Naqes saw Blackfyre trade less than a thousand lives for over ten thousand of your knights."

"If I remember my sums," Kalamnys said, "he will have killed all fifty thousand of your soldiers in the Stepstones and still have four thousand of his Golden Company to spare."

"Naqes was a disaster," Velaryon said, nodding, "but so were the Battle of Seafyre and the Battle Beneath the Storm."

"You did not face the Golden Company the second time, and but a fraction of their strength in the first," Alequo said. "Yes, you have shown yourself an able captain, but this war will not end until Blackfyre is dead. Can you beat him on land? If not, he remains a great threat to Tyrosh's hinterland."

Velaryon fell into a quiet contemplation, a hundred ideas hidden behind those violet eyes of his. "What if," he finally said, "we made arrangements to mitigate the danger to your city?"

"Oh?" Alequo leaned forward."Do tell."

"The danger of the hinterlands falling is that Tyrosh will starve," Velaryon said. "But Westeros has plentiful crops from the Reach and the riverlands. The king could arrange shipments for his allies."

"For free?" Kalamnys asked.

"At a price well beyond cheap," Velaryon said.

"The pirates make any shipments moot," Kalamnys said.

Velaryon tilted his head. "We control the Stepstones. We can put an end to that."

"Our relationship with the hinterlands," Alequo said, "is not merely one of _taking_. For our patronage, they receive protection as well." It was not entirely the truth, but what would a Westerosi barbarian know other than their _feudalism_?

"Then keep your fighting men in your cities. Do not surrender them so easily to Maelys," Velaryon said. "Even denying him access to the northern waters would make the king count you as a faithful friend of his. It would ensure, if nothing else, that the Myrish do not make trouble. Westeros does not ask you for gold or soldiers like Maelys does."

Now there was an offer worth sleeping on. Keep his gold and men behind walls, a generous discount for food, and an end to the pirate raids. Alequo's position in Tyrosh would be insurmountable after such a diplomatic coup, enough to entirely reverse the calamities at Bloodstone and Pryr.

"I will need time to consider this," Alequo said, rising from his seat. "We will resume these talks after lunch."

Velaryon nodded. "As you wish, Archon."

They began with a soup of chilled watercress perfect for the heat, and a spiced broth of chicken as well. Then came the snails, glistening with butter and served in golden bowls, the quails in honey, a rack of lamb with a side of mint, and a salad with golden grass as its base. Alequo waited, politely, for his guests to be served before taking a double portion for himself. His cooks were fat and old, and as far as he was concerned, those were the only cooks worth buying.

When they finished eating, it was well past midday.

"Have you given my proposals more thought?" Velaryon asked.

"I have," Alequo said. "It is a fine offer, but I must decline. As you said, have not enough fathers lost sons, and wives lost husbands?" Alliance with Westeros would secure his rule for a decade, but if he could unify the Stepstones in the wake of their retreat? If he could fly the purple banner over half the Verdant Heel?

Archon for life… the title appealed to Alequo greatly.

Velaryon frowned. "Very well. Have your peace and _choke_ _on it_."

Alequo blinked, and shared a look with Kalmnys. _He is a smart boy, but still a boy in the end. _Lelouch Velaryon was overused to victory, and now defeat at the hands of his better has left him raw.

A pair of scribes were called for and Kalamnys dictated the terms of their agreement. When the ink had dried, Alequo pressed his signet rink to the paper and gestured for Velaryon to do the same in place of his king. It would have to be ratified by the Iron Throne as well to be truly official, but in the meantime this would do nicely.

As Velaryon transmuted scribbled words on a piece of parchment into political truth, he spoke, for the first time, in the tongue of Tyrosh. "Give Maelys Blackfyre my regards when you see him."

Alequo jerked his head back. _He can speak, rather fluently too. I would think him a son of Tyrosh if only he had a beard. _His words gave Alequo pause. _Why would he say something like that_? "What do you mean by that?"

Velaryon shared a look with his girl. "You did me the courtesy of telling me about Lys. I suppose it's only fair I tell you of your death," he continued in Tyroshi.

His brow shot up. "My death?"

"It is three hours past midday now, is it not?" Velaryon asked.

"It is," Kalamnys said.

"Then Maelys Blackfyre and all his friends have already received a message," Velaryon said. "Every member of the Band of Nine will know before the sun sets."

Alequo frowned. Blackfyre was still closer to Lys than Tyrosh, but his men were making good time last he heard. How could Lelouch Velaryon have sent him a messa—Sarys. His blood chilled. The Swift Stallion Sarys had sent out last night, it would have reached Blackfyre already. If there'd been more than one letter, more riders could've been found at the first waypoint.

"What did the message say?" Alequo asked, feeling a lead weight drop on his stomach.

"It says Alequo Adarys has made peace with the Iron Throne, and has betrayed the Blackfyre cause," Velaryon said. "I can't imagine Maelys is too pleased with that."

Alequo paled. "That—that—"

"That will be the death of you," Velaryon said. "You have your peace, now do as I said, and _choke on it_."

If he could get a message to Blackfyre in time to explain—no, that wouldn't work. Lashare's quiet defiance was one thing, but this was too public. Blackfyre would have to make an example of him or he could not hope to keep his hold over the Band of Nine. After all, if a mere "coin counter", as Alequo was derisively called, could break free without consequence, why couldn't a pirate queen or a sellsword captain?

"You have slandered me," Alequo said.

"It was not I who sent the message," Velaryon said.

"But you knew of it!"

Velaryon shrugged. "You knew of Lys, and were not upfront with it. Do not be a hypocrite, Adarys."

Kalamnys was edging away from him now. _Tyrosh can survive this, but can I?_ Blackfyre could set fire to their whole hinterlands, and while he might keep his life in Tyrosh, how long before even his own allies sold him out?

"Perhaps we have been too hasty," Alequo said quickly. "I have reconsidered and would gladly accept alliance with your king."

"The ink has already dried," Velaryon said, poking the paper in his hand, only for it to come off marked black. "Oh, so it hasn't. Well, better make this quick. Alliance you say? You'll have peace of us, and friendship too. But alliance? Why should my people bleed for yours? This is a war your people must fight."

"Tyrosh has much to offer you. With us as allies, Blackfyre will never be able to make use of the northern waters! What shall he do against your king? Land in Dorne and die to the sun and snakes? Land in the Reach and fight a thousand and one castles?"

"What you say may be beneficial," Velaryon said contemplatively, before shaking his head. "We thank you, but no. You need us more than we need you."

"We can send men," Alequo said.

"You do not have many of those left," Velaryon said. "By your own admission, a Tyroshi soldier is not even the equal of a Westerosi, nevermind a soldier of the Golden Company."

"_What_," Alequo spat out, "would it take then for me to make common cause with your king?"

Velaryon smiled, and it was all teeth and daggers. "You will cease all support of Maelys Blackfyre immediately—no coin, no sellswords, no rogue captains."

"Done," Alequo said. "You mentioned arrangements for Tyrosh, to mitigate the danger of starvation—"

"—For a price," Velaryon said, "and that price has gone up."

"How much?" Kalamnys asked.

"A fair price for all involved," Velaryon said. "It does us no good if you all starve to death before being of use, but it does us no good if the Iron Throne bankrupts itself feeding slavers."

"The pirates of yours?" Alequo asked.

"They're not _our_ pirates," Velaryon said.

"You deny that they are your lapdogs then?" Kalamnys asked.

Velaryon looked at the pink-bearded man and smiled blandly. "Categorically. I am, as you said, just a _daft_ boy."

Alequo raised a hand and Kalamnys' mouth shut tightly. They would be hearing no more from the Master of Ships.

Velaryon turned to Alequo. "We control the Stepstones, so the pirates can be brought into compliance, but there is a condition."

"Which is?"

"One does not excel in Essos without knowing the worth of your wares, and Westeros is not so cheaply bought," Velaryon said. "The Iron Throne cannot be seen being friends with a slaver."

"You would have us abolish slavery?" Sarys asked in shock.

It seemed the snake did not know of this either. "That is out of the question," Alequo said, his neck feeling damp.

"Come, let us be reasonable friends," Velaryon said. "What good are your slaves if you do not last to see the morrow?"

"I will not see the morrow if you make me do this," Alequo said. "Even my own allies will desert me, and soon you will have a new Archon to deal with." _One you do not have as much leverage over. _

"Might we speak in private?" Velaryon asked.

Alequo nodded and everyone filled out.

Once they were alone, Lelouch Velayon said, "I am not unaware of the perilous position you are in. As you imply, a new Archon to deal with would not be ideal for either of us, but especially for you."

_Because I'd be dead_. "If you know this, then do not ask me to do what cannot be done."

"Let us not speak of impossibilities so soon," Velaryon said. "The problem, as I see it, is that this must be something you can sell to your friends as a win, no?"

"That is accurate."

"Then Wessteros will let you keep your men and your gold," Velaryon said. "We have no need for it. In exchange, we ask that you deny Blackfyre passage through your lands, though we both know you cannot stop him. More importantly, you guard the northern waters on our behalf and put a stop to any attempted crossing."

"In return for your generous contributions," he continued, "you will be given seven years to adopt the Pentoshi solution. I trust you know what that is?"

"You do not rise high in Essos without knowing," Alequo said. "Seven years?"

"A lot can happen in seven years," Velaryon said.

_He must sell this to his own people too_, Alequo thought. _This is more for appearances than this Sacred Struggle of theirs. _"It will look like capitulation. They would not believe me that in seven years things might change."

"Then you must convert to the Faith of the Seven," Velaryon said. "Free your own slaves. Perhaps even fund a sept too and be baptized. I am honored to count the High Septon among my acquaintances."

_What did he_—it clicked. "Sell this as self-sacrifice?"

"And in exchange, we will phrase the agreement more leniently," Velaryon said. He snapped his fingers. "The Archon of Tyrosh will work over the next seven years to make his people see reason in the light of the Seven Who Are One, and lead by example in seeing slavery done away with in Tyrosh."

Alequo nodded slowly. "That… I think I can make that work."

Velaryon extended a hand to him, and Alequo took it, like a drowning man grasped for air. _Well played, Lelouch Velaryon_. _I will not underestimate you again._

**-ZeroRequiem-**

_I have failed_, Maelys thought as he surveyed what was once a farm. The sky had turned a blood orange and so thick with smoke it made the eyes of many men water.

"We've turned the Tyroshi hinterlands into a burning wreck," Fossoway growled, "and still Adarys will not yield!"

"As long as he is in Tyrosh and we are without ships, he is safe," Maelys said bitterly.

Adarys had learned his lesson from Lelouch Velaryon's raids. By the time Maelys arrived, their own tributaries had hidden behind their tall walls of stone with their food and their soldiers. The Westerosi seemed to be supplying Tyrosh itself and many of the coastal cities with food despite just coming out of an admittedly warm winter. They could not hope to starve them out in a reasonable amount of time, and they _refused_ to give battle on the field.

Siege was not an option. Maelys could not afford to waste so much time in these lands bringing every pitiful city to heel when there were reports reaching him daily of Westerosi bands putting his own southern supply lines to the torch.

Yet, to abandon the Tyroshi hinterlands in the wake of their open defiance sat ill with him.

Being born with two faces did not afford Maelys the luxury of self-deception. His rule, the very basis of his legitimacy, was _fear_, not love. There would be no flower wreaths for him in Westeros; no cheering smallfolk or praise from lords, septons, and maesters. But they would all have bowed to him for fear of what someone _monstrous _would inflict on the defiant.

_Men will look at me and wonder 'Is Maelys truly one to fear if he cannot keep a coin counter in check?'_

If he stayed in Tyrosh, he'd have no food to feed his army once he crossed. If he left Tyrosh, he'd have not a shred of legitimacy and the Band of Nine—Band of Six now—would fracture into nothing.

Where had it all gone so wrong?

"Naqes," he said softly. "We should have ended it then and there. Committed the reserves, crushed Aerys Targaryen's skull, and crossed the narrow sea." It would have hurt, they would have bled, but they could have won. Yet, he'd hesitated, thinking greater victory could be won elsewhere.

How could Maelys have known that a man of Velaryon's caliber existed? A commander who defied the norm, did the impossible…

He _should_ have known. The Night of the Myrmidons, the Battle of Bloodstone Straits, these were not outcomes a lesser man could have achieved. Maelys should have known, because hadn't the gods _always _sent someone to save the Targaryens time and again from their own inadequacy?

In the First and Second Defeat, Bloodraven brought his ancestors low with foul archery and low cunning. In the Third Defeat, there had been Maekar to rally the realm, and the Fourth Defeat saw Ser Duncan the Tall slay the rightful king of Westeros.

And now… now there was the Seafyre, the Stormcaller, Champion of the Seven—Lelouch Velaryon.

Yet, in a way, Maelys was thankful. Velaryon had exposed his weaknesses and forced him into struggle. He'd struggled all his life, while others were given everything. Struggle was familiar. Struggle burned away weakness. This struggle would see him a worthy successor to the Blackfyre name.

"We head back south," Maelys said. "We've done all we can here and we need to be in position for the fleet to carry us west after Old Mother finishes consolidating."

"What about Tyrosh?" Fossoway asked.

"Leave a detachment of your Knightfall company under a trusted captain, someone who won't be tempted by the promise of easy gold," Maelys said. "Then let him loose."

Fossoway grinned toothily. "I have some men who might enjoy that."

If nothing else, it would tie the Tyroshi down and keep them from resting too easily in their cities.

Days turned to weeks on their return march south. The tributaries at the edge of Tyrosh's sphere had already turned their colors from purple to black, but it did little as a balm for his mind.

"It changes little," Maelys said to his subordinates. "These are not cities longsworn to Tyrosh, and they change masters every year depending on where the winds blow. These are but pinpricks to them."

"I can't imagine Jaehaerys rested easy when we had the means to land in the crownlands itself," Spotted Tom said. "Now what is left? Dorne?"

"A perilous land of sand and snakes," Fossoway hissed. "We have no friends in Dorne, but we might find many in the Reach."

They would find no friends in Westeros, but Fossoway intended to take his due from the family that cast him out, Maelys knew. They'd heard little from any of the great lords since he'd returned the knights captured at Naqes. The ploy had never been more than a means of sowing discord, for the allies he'd chosen for himself were besides him.

_Though some days I wonder if that was my first misstep,_ Maelys thought.

It was a year since Lashare had seized total control over Myr after the Night of the Myrmidons, give or take a few days, and already two of his allies had died, one had turned coat, and one lifted not a finger to help.

"And be forced to besiege half a hundred castles from Oldtown to King's Landing?" said Tom scathingly. "We'd have sallies against us each morning from every which. There are faster ways to commit suicide"

Even now, united under one cause, _his_ cause, the hatred between Dorne and the Reach persisted.

"We'd smash every host they sent to face us," Fossoway said. "Such victories will bolster Maely's cause. What awaits us in Dorne but a slow death without glory? Succumbing to sun and sand for lack of water is no way to go."

Maelys raised his clenched gauntlet. "The situation is fluid. Much will have changed between now and when Old Mother is ready."

"As you say, Your Grace," they said in grudging unison.

And much did change, but not for the better.

Far off estates were put to the torch. Enclaves of slaves found with broken collars and iron in their hands. Lynched fat men. Supply dumps despoiled, ransacked, beyond use. The reports came frequently, and with disturbing regularity and consistency that Maelys could not dismiss it as the work of overactive rumormongers. It seemed the whole southwest of the Verdant Heel was under threat.

Maelys had never hated being more right in his life.

"_Targaryens!_" screamed Fossoway. "Onward! Onward Knightfall! Ride down the curs!"

As the scorned knight and twelve hundred of his heavy horse pinned a thousand strong detachment of Reach spears in place with the mere threat of charge, his Golden Company swept forward, shattering their petrified prey like a hammer striking glass.

If only that were the end of it.

"Where are the rest of them?" Maelys asked. "There were too few here."

"Mayhaps these were scouts?" Tom asked, though he seemed no more confident in his words than Maelys was.

"A thousand men on foot to scout? The Targaryens do not have fools for commanders." Not all of them at least. "A vanguard? But if so, why have we not seen any sign of the main host?"

The answer became clearer the next day when they found another detachment of three hundred men—all knights and squires and mounted men-at-arms. The lions of Lannister, unlike the Reachmen, were difficult to pin down and even harder to match in a contest of speed. After all, their host was but a fraction of a fraction of the Golden Company.

"We should give chase," Tom said.

"It might leave our own horse overextended and vulnerable if they've men waiting in support," Fossoway said.

_Where was your caution yesterday?_ Maelys thought. Yet, he had an inkling of what the Targaryen host was doing. "Give chase, but retreat at the first sign of a trap."

"As you command," Fossoway said, sending his horse into a canter.

They watched as the westerland lions kept fleeing, slowly engulfed by the jaws of Knightfall, then at last went over an eastern hill. Then, at last, the Knightfall returned and Maelys _knew _what the Targaryens had done by the grim look marring Fossoway's handsome visage.

"Their host camps over that hill," Fossoway said. "Twenty thousand strong, and another twenty thousand it looks like maybe half a day's march away to our south."

"Do we offer battle?" Tom asked.

"Against forty thousand?" Fossoway asked. "This is not Naqes. We do not have the element of surprise and an enemy in disarray now."

The Golden Company was an army like no other, but four-to-one, and without the high ground was insurmountable. "What we saw yesterday was a foraging party," Maelys said. "They must be sending out detachments to pick the region clean before moving on."

_Two-to-one odds though… perhaps if I can lure them into giving battle before their reinforcements arrive?_ Maelys thought. "Sound the trumpets. We form up and offer battle, if they dare take it."

It was with a father's pride that Maelys watched his men form rank upon rank of glistening golden phalanxes, with their heavy cavalry massed on one flank and their elephants anchoring the other. There they baked under the sun for three hours, but the red dragons would not come down from their roost.

Finally, on the fourth hour, Maelys could wait no longer. "Sound the retreat."

As trumpets blared once more and his host fell back, Tom snorted. "So the cowards refuse to face us in open battle and resort to _this_."

_This might be the end of us yet, _Maelys thought.

Each time Maelys offered battle to one host, it would wait for the other. If he entrenched on favorable terrain, they'd starve him out. One would think forty thousand men would starve faster than his thirteen thousand men and allies, all else being equal. But all else was not equal, for the Targaryens could supplement their scavenging with foodstuff brought by ship and Maelys could only live off an increasingly devastated land. All the while Targaryen foragers descended like locusts on the region, engaging in light skirmish with his men whenever possible.

Together, his Golden Company was the master of any other force, but only when _together_. Split apart from each other, too far to be supported, and a hundred of his men died like any other hundred men. It seemed the Targaryen commanders had figured that out.

Armies of red and black danced a near bloodless, burning dance across the Verdant Heel, and the war was more terrible for it.

"Another _victory_," Fossoway spat out, like the word was a bitter herb to his tongue.

Victory, so some claimed, because the Targaryens had fled the field than take his offer of battle. "If we remain victorious in the battles," Maelys said, "we shall be utterly ruined before we set foot on Westeros."

"So what do we do?" Tom asked. "We can't let their foragers go unchallenged, and we cannot catch them with our main host without bringing their full might down on our heads."

That much was true. They'd starve to death without supplies, and though they'd wisely kept many of their needs behind city walls, the less guarded ones allowed them greater mobility than they otherwise would have.

"This war cannot be won while we are in Essos," Maelys said. In cyvasse, only the king mattered. All else was chaff, so the Volantenes told him.

"Make for the shore?" Fossoway asked. "The Targaryens will not let us be rid of them so easily, and if we attempt to embark with them breathing down our necks, we invite disaster."

"Xhobar rejoined us last night, did he not?" Maelys asked.

"Yes, Your Grace," Fossoway said. "Him and his three thousand."

He pointed to a spot on the map where a defile was, some eight hundred yards at the narrowest point. It was ideal ground for the Summerswans, but the Targaryen commanders would never attack into a position without the weight of numbers on their side.

"I need his goldenheart bows here with Serjeant Rolan Rivers," Maelys said, "reinforced with warbows and crossbows until they number one thousand in total. Five hundred of our pikes will join them too."

Xhobar would be smart enough to prepare the land beforehand without his input.

"And what of the rest of us?" Fossoway asked.

"Xhobar is the hunter in waiting," Maelys said, "and we will act the hounds, forcing our quarry to move where we want them to."

It'd taken days of maneuvering to get everything setup, but by the end of a week they'd forced one host to march a full day behind the other. Then, he ordered his men through Aegador's Scorch.

The Westerosi had two choices. Let him break free of their incessant badgering, or go through the defile where black grass grew, where Xhobar waited.

They chose the latter and it was a _mistake_.

The Summer Islands had long held dominion over much of the summer sea and southern Sothoryos, yet they almost disdained armor and good steel.

"Plate is bulky and slows a man down," Xhobar was fond of saying. "It makes men feel safe, but those men have not met me."

Through a far-eye, Maelys watched the battle end from a distant hill. The Targaryens were in full retreat, leaving the battlefield covered in black and bloodied grass: Blackfyre colors. Yard long shafts littered the field of corpses—perhaps a third were now food for the crows. Where a warbow had no hope of hurting a knight in full armor save through the luckiest of shots, and a weirwood bow might struggle to kill, goldenheart bows punched through full plate cleanly.

There were no bows of finer make in the world save those of dragonbone, and the dragons were all dead.

"Xhobar is victorious!" Fossoway proclaimed to their men as he set down his own far-eye.

"Blackfyre! Blackfyre!"

"Victory for the Black Dragon!"

"Maelys the Unvanquished!"

His men cheered and Maelys scowled, turning his eyes back to the bloodied ground. _Blackfyre colors, or Targaryen colors? It is red blood on black grass after all._

Being born with two faces did not afford Maelys the luxury of self-deception. For all these small tactical victories, Maelys was _losing_ this war.

What was seven thousand men to House Targaryen? Next to nothing.

Westeros was trading lives for time—time to gather more men, time to further their growing naval superiority, time to see if his band would break...

...Time to bring Lys to a boiling, white-hot _rage_.

**-ZeroRequiem-**

Rhaella peered at the pie topped with garlic, onions, and shrimp in interest. "A Myrish invention you say?"

"Yes, Your Grace," said the girl in a dress of fine silk and Myrish lace. Her accent Rhaella couldn't quite place, only that it was Essosi, exotic, and _sensual_. She was tall and lithe with unblemished olive skin that looked smoother than a Dornish baby's.

"What's your name?" Rhaella asked.

"Omorfia, Your Grace," she said. "Omorfia Ayas, granddaughter of Magister Zoutos of Myr."

"Magister?" Rhaella repeated, looking to Ser Mooton. She'd heard that word before, on one of the days father held court.

"What they call their rulers in Essos," Mooton said. "The richest, most powerful, most influential of their coin counters."

_A city ruled by merchants? How quaint. _Rhaella thought, blowing at the hot slice before taking a bite. An explosion of savory and salty flavors burst in her mouth, with the onions giving it a subtle sweetness. She swallowed and smiled. "It's very good."

"Thank you, Your Grace." Omorfia bowed slightly. "It pleases me that my humble shop has found favor with you."

"Why are you out here in King's Landing on your own, rather than back on Driftmark?" Mooton asked. "Isn't that where Magister Zoutos has established his new trade?"

"Ah," Omorfia said. "I wished to make a fortune for myself and it is… _difficult _to escape my grandfather's shadow. Here at least, his name is not so well known that every man I deal with will favor me just to please him."

"I can understand that," Mooton said gruffly, something close to respect in his eye.

"Do you get much news from Driftmark?" Rhaella asked.

Omorfia nodded, pushing her silky black hair to the side. "Oh yes. My grandfather tells me of Lord Lelouch's exploits regularly."

Rhaella blinked. It was no surprise her grandfather had met Lelouch, but to address him by his first name… "Your grandfather is well-acquainted with him?"

Omorfia tilted her head to the side. "I suppose so? He did save our lives at Myr and they get up to all manner of schemes together. I've spoken to him a few times too when he was still here."

"You have?" Rhaella asked.

"Usually by happenstance," Omorfia said. "I am partners with his woman, whom this establishment is named for."

Rhaella looked up at the sign that read "Cici's pizza" and smiled wryly. "I suppose I'll have an answer for Joanna now where it is Lelouch disappears to in the city." _A forbidden tryst with a foreign woman… how romantic_. It sounded positively like one of Rhaella's favorite stories.

Perhaps Lelouch Velaryon did have a heart under all that bluster about duty.

"So," Rhaella said, "what did you last hear from your grandfather about Lord Lelouch?"

"Well, he is Ser Lelouch now," Omorfia said, tapping her cheek thoughtfully. "I am actually unsure how to properly address him."

"Ser and lord, either is fine," Rhaella said. "Knighted? Whatever for?"

Omorfia's eyes widened. "You haven't heard? He saved the army at the Battle of Naqes in a decisive defense. The crown prince himself knighted him."

Rhaella looked to Ser Mooton. "Where was I when this was announced?"

"Grieving, Your Grace," he said solemnly. "We had thought the Lord Hand's injuries fatal, and you locked yourself in your room that entire day. You were inconsolable, and would not even see your ladies-in-waiting."

Rhaella's mouth formed an "O", before she said, "I'm glad for him then. Great deeds should be rewarded with great honors." And for boys, there were few honors greater than knighthood at the hand of their future king. "But it takes a knight to make a knight, so who knighted my brother?"

"Ser Tywin Lannister had the honor," Ser Mooton said.

_Tywin? _He was good friends with Aerys, and she'd spotted Lelouch and Tywin speaking cordially more than a few times. Had her brother found a friend in Lelouch Velaryon? _I suppose there are worse friends to have_, she thought.

Rhaella stood up and wiped her greased fingers on a wet towelette. "Thank you for the meal, Omorfia. It was delicious."

"Come again anytime, Your Grace," Omorfia said, seeing them out the door.

Rhaella stepped out into the Street of the Gods, not far from where the Alchemists practiced their craft, and returned to the Red Keep with Ser Mooton in tow. "I hear my uncle is returning to Westeros soon," Rhaella said.

"To gather more men for campaign," Ser Mooton said.

"Do you suppose he'll come speak to father before leaving?" she asked.

"Anything's possible."

Ser Mooton's words proved prophetic. Not only had her uncle visited King's Landing with Aunt Rhaelle, he'd stayed on indefinitely. Rhaella's grasp on the situation was middling at best. She had not been trained to think of war, but it seemed to her the mere threat that Blackfyre might land in either the Vale or the northern crownlands had forced her uncle to garrison the city with men. Now, it seemed everywhere Rhaella turned her head there were lanky riverland boys, gruff stormlanders, and dashing knights of the Vale.

"Mayhaps some of these Vale knights will not be as fond of their drinks as Ronnel Arryn," Joanna said to Rhaella as the Lannister fanned herself.

Rhaella's face grimaced as she remembered. The man had nearly spilled his dinner on her dress, and looked much the same when the High Septon was giving his sermon. "One can hope," she said. "Has anything interesting happened? It's been so dull lately."

Joanna shut her fan as a thoughtful look landed on her face. "Well, I received a letter from my cousin recently."

"Lady Genna?" Rhaella asked. She'd heard that the poor girl's husband had died recently. "Is she feeling better?"

"Still _grieving_," Joanna said, "but she tells me she met Lelouch at Duskendale. She seems quite taken with him."

"She ought to marry him then. I'm sure her grief will pass by the time the war is done," Rhaella said. _Would Lelouch keep to his talk of duty and do as his father bid, or would he run off with his woman?_

"It might yet come to pass," Joanna said with an impish grin. "Lelouch was heard remarking on her rather ample _dowry_."

Rhaella rolled her eyes. "The boy has no shame."

"He's daring is all," Joanna said, almost wistfully.

Rhaella raised a brow at her. "Should I tell my brother he ought to marry you soon, or risk Lelouch Velaryon whisking you away?"

There was a spark of quiet laughter in Joanna's eyes. "Perhaps you should. If I wait any longer, I feel I might die a spinster."

"You're six and ten, same as Aerys," Rhaella said.

"Exactly. I'm six and ten and still unmarried."

**-ZeroRequiem-**

It was not often Rhaella got to see her aunt, so she'd made sure to spend time with her over tea one afternoon, after an exciting day at court. Lord Jaron continued to sing praises of his son that Rhaella swore even the Seven would've heard by now. Not that it was undeserved, but it seemed every piece of good news that reached them involved Lelouch Velaryon in one way or another.

Her aunt had set a nice table for them in the Tower of the Hand, filled with lemon cakes and honeycombs paired with a minty brew.

"Let me look at you, child," Aunt Rhaelle said.

She stood and presented herself before her namesake.

Her aunt gifted her a warm smile, and pinched her cheek. "You look more radiant each time I see you."

"We should see each other more often than," Rhaella said as she sat back down. "That way, I'll be a beauty to match Shiera Seastar."

Aunt Rhaelle laughed. "You hardly need my help for that, dear. There'll be no end of suitors for your hand in a few more years when you've fully blossomed."

"I don't think I'd like that. There's already no end to them," Rhaella said.

"That's good, that's good," Aunt Rhaelle said, putting a hand atop hers. "Choice is good."

"Choice, but not mine to make," Rhaella said.

"We always have a choice."

_Lelouch nodded. "Do you think that was her choice?" _

"You didn't," Rhaella said.

Aunt Rhaelle smiled. "I chose what was best for my family. I chose duty over love."

"Over happiness?" Rhaella asked.

"I am happy," Aunt Rhaelle said. "I could have done far worse than Ormund, and in the end, we agreed with each other."

Rhaella fell quiet.

Aunt Rhaelle sipped her tea and set it down. "Something's bothering you."

"It's just… I'm not blind," Rhaella said. "I know I'll have to marry soon, when the war is over most likely."

"We all do eventually." Aunt Rhaella tilted her head. "Do you have your heart set on someone?"

_Bonnifer_. Rhaella's throat dried. "No… not anymore. He is—"

_"A silly notion," Lelouch said. "A knight is no fit consort for a princess of the realm."_

Rhaella shook her head clear of his voice. "He is unavailable."

"Then you must move on if he has," Aunt Rhaelle said. "It doesn't do to dwell on the past, on what could have beens. Believe me, I know."

"It's hard."

Aunt Rhaelle smiled sadly. "It's easier with someone new to care for. What about that Velaryon boy? Your father seems to like him."

Rhaella sighed. "Father likes him because Lelouch keeps winning. Will he still like him if he falters?" The Battle Beneath the Storm sounded to her a close thing. One misstep and it could have ended all so differently.

"I can't claim to know my brother's mind," Aunt Rhaelle said. "Do you like him then?"

"It's not my choice."

"You have more of a say than you think, dear. Your father cares for you and your happiness, but he must balance that with his duty to our house and to the realm. What you think may sway him yet. Again, do you like Lelouch Velaryon?"

Did she?

**-ZeroRequiem-**

"Peace in our time. On this day, in the fifth month of the second year of the reign of King Jaehaerys, the Second of His Name," Uncle Ormund announced to the court, "the Iron Throne has found common cause with Alequo Adarys, the Archon of Tyrosh, against the Pretender Maelys Blackfyre."

Rhaella was only half-listening to it all. Most of it she'd been privy to when Uncle Ormund and her father discussed it over dinner.

The long and short of it was that her uncle would be leaving King's Landing soon to rejoin the fight. With Tyrosh now an ally, the threat of invasion from the Sea of Myrth was deemed rather less credible. Now the only viable threat left was a seaborne invasion through the summer sea.

"It is my will that Ser Gerold Hightower shall remain in overall command," Father said, "and that Lord Baratheon shall serve under him, charged with leading one of two great hosts to hamper Maelys Blackfyre from ever reaching our shores."

It was rather lost on Rhaella how they intended to win the war if, as Father had said last night, they would not offer battle to Maelys Blackfyre but bleed him with a thousand cuts.

"Further," Father said, "Lord Lelouch Velaryon and Lord Quellon Greyjoy shall have joint command over all the ships that pledge service to the Iron Throne, with the intent of freeing Lys from the yoke of slavery that Maelys Blackfyre condones."

There were gasps and murmurs that met her father's words, and it seemed the nobility's opinion of the Blackfyre cause had dropped to a new low, if that were even possible.

"A fine choice, Your Grace," Uncle Ormund said.

Jaron Velaryon was positively _beaming_, like Joanna had looked when Aerys had first kissed her.

Their talks soon turned to potential replacements for Ser Redfort, who'd died protecting Aerys, as well as the troubling amount of Volantene gold they were finding in the Disputed Lands.

**-ZeroRequiem-**

"They say Lyseni women are the most beautiful in the world," Joanna read her letter aloud, "but I have taken the city for myself and find those words ring false. I offer you this, Princess Rhaella, that you might see the most beautiful woman in the world."

Rhaella wrinkled her nose. "It's rather over the top, isn't it?"

"I think it's nice," Princess Myriah said, standing beside her in front a full length plane mirror of smooth glass. It's back and rims were made of gold, tiny carvings etched into them that seemed to be dancing, though it was not one Rhaella had ever seen. "All I got was a tapestry."

"You too?" Joanna asked. "It seems everyone has a tapestry these days. Lelouch must have gifted one to every man and woman he's ever spoken to."

Rhaella would be lying if she said that didn't make her feel a little bit special to get something different.

A few days later, when Ormond Yronwood sent her a tapestry, Joanna and Myriah giggled at the sight of it.

"How quaint," Myriah said. "You can put it on the pile with the others."


	23. Interlude - Tears for Lys

**Chapter 23: Interlude - Tears for Lys**

Lys was on fire, and it wasn't Lelouch's fault.

_At least not entirely his fault_, Cici thought as she nibbled on a slice of lean ham, cheese, onions, and crisped bacon bits. _Needs something sweet to balance it out_.

"The city's gone utterly mad," Corwyn said as he set down his borrowed far-eye. "Brother, the people, they're _butchering _each other on the streets! Slaves just throwing themselves at armed men with their bare hands!"

"Can you blame them?" Lelouch asked with a grimace.

"What do you mean?" Corwyn asked.

"We've been starving them for weeks, haven't you realized? And before us, it was Maelys and Old Mother targeting their shipping, disrupting their food supply so badly that the Lysene magisters were forced to capitulate to a sellsail," Lelouch said. "A _pirate, _a person that makes a living _stealing_ their wares on the high seas. I honestly think they'd have preferred surrendering to a slave. Do you imagine they'd suffer such humiliation unless their situation was anything but dire?"

Corwyn shook his head.

"When a city starves, hunger trickles up," Lelouch said. "Captain Bluebeard, signal the fleet. We are returning Lys to the king's peace."

"Aye, milord," Bluebeard said. "Brown like sand, land!"

Lelouch's Myrman drummer began to pound loudly on the kettledrum, _bam-BAM bam-BAM babaBAM_, and the _Seafyre_ led the charge into Lys.

Cici swallowed her last bite and wiped her hands clean. "This shouldn't be too hard," she said.

Lelouch had some sixty-three hundred crownland levies answering to him directly, and half the Dornish contingent under Prince Lewyn added another twenty-five hundred to that. The other half had gone with the Yronwoods, thinking more glory was to be had on the mainland. Martell was gambling on the exact opposite.

Finally, her own Myrish Auxiliaries, though that was no longer an accurate name for it, had swelled to over fifteen hundred men. With every city they forced to capitulate along the Essosi shore, hundreds of new slaves flocked to her growing army.

All together, they had a little over ten thousand fighting men to bring Lys to heel with. Plus, the Iron Fleet.

By the looks of things, whatever guards and pirates the Old Mother had in the city would be too busy fighting for their own lives to notice them approaching. And even if they did notice, the chaos made it impossible for any significant resistance to form at the beaches and repel them. It was, in Cici's vast experience, one of the easiest landings to pull off on a hostile island.

"I don't understand," Corwyn said, looking at the numerous fruit trees picked clean and the blue-green waters teeming with fish. "They have all this food here… why isn't it enough?"

"Care to take a guess how many people live in the Perfumed Sister?" Cici asked.

"Five hundred thousand?"

"Try nine hundred thousand," she said.

Corwyn jerked his head back. "That's more people than in King's Landing!"

"Yup," Cici said. "Most of the Free Cities do, though the Lyseni are particularly active in that regard on account of—"

"I get it."

"—having so many whores," she finished as Corwyn continued to turn beet red. "Why does this still make you uncomfortable? Didn't you have your way with that pretty girl at the peace talks?"

"Jeyne was—"

"Jeyne?" Cici said, smirking. "You still remember her name? Awww, are you in love?"

"If you'd stop needling my brother, I would appreciate it," Lelouch said, walking up and down the line behind the rapidly expanding shieldwall. Each step of his was a concert of piano and violin to her; loud, something classical and suitably dramatic.

_O Fortuna?_

The gates of the city were wide open, and there wasn't anyone atop the walls of Lys to shoot down at them. "What are we even shielding against?" Corwyn asked as mounted on his chestnut charger.

Her Lelouch always planned for everything. "Maintaining formation helps keep discipline among the men," Cici said, "and when we penetrate Lovely Lys, their discipline will be tested by loot, plunder, and plenty of rape."

"Corwyn," Lelouch said, "take our knights and clear our way in, but do not advance beyond a bow's range from the gate."

"There's no glory to be had slaughtering slaves, and women at that." Corwyn slammed his visor shut and drew his sword. "Knights of Driftmark and the crownlands, to the gate!"

They left in a brief storm of hooves, kicking up sand everywhere, though Cici made sure to stay well away from them before they did. Behind them, a contingent of spears and bows followed after to fortify the gate and the walls above it.

Lelouch sidled up to her, and each quiet step he took on the sand sounded like drumbeat to her ears. "You still have your dagger?"

Cici tilted her head to the side. "Of course. I never know when I'll need something sharp and pointy to save you with."

"Velaryon!"

Cici turned around and took a step back so that Lelouch was slightly ahead of her. These lords were prickly about things like that, even the Ironborn.

"Lord Greyjoy," Lelouch said.

"This was supposed to be just another raid," Quellon Greyjoy said, kneeling down to grasp a handful of sand. "This is good sand."

"Better than Dorne's?" asked Lewyn Martell as his own galley beached near them. He jumped off the ship and landed in a crouch, clearly already feeling better from the injuries he'd taken saving the dragon boy.

Greyjoy grinned as he stood. "Much better than Dorne's, though we'll see about their women. I like some passion in mine, and it sounds like the Lyseni have unearthed a lot of that recently."

They both looked to Lelouch. "This wasn't part of the plan," Martell said.

"The plan's changed," Lelouch said. "I saw an opportunity, and I took it."

"You're making a habit of taking Free Cities," Greyjoy said. "You sure you weren't born as one of mine in a past life?"

Cici smothered her smile.

"I'm positive," Lelouch said, glancing at her. "And I didn't take Tyrosh—"

"You just talked them into letting you fuck 'em," Greyjoy said. "Same difference."

"Talking is not quite paying the iron price," Martell said.

"The iron price is stupid," Greyjoy said, shrugging. "I want my people rich in plunder and covered in glory. Why should it matter how we get it?"

"That's rather enlightened," Martell said, "for an ironborn."

Greyjoy rubbed his hands together like a child on Christmas Eve. "I've never had me a Free City before. This'll go down in the legends for sure. Quellon Greyjoy and his reavers ravaging Lys the Lovely and her pillow houses."

"We should discuss our strategy," Lelouch said.

"Strategy? Here's my strategy," Greyjoy said, pointing to the walls. "There's the bitch, now let's go impregnate her. It's simple."

"And afterwards?" Lelouch asked.

Greyjoy frowned. "Afterwards?"

"After Old Mother is dead, after Lys has fallens, after the anger dies down," Lelouch said. "What next?"

"Then we leave," Greyjoy said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "Free the slaves and let them sort it out."

"You'll leave, having earned the enmity of all Lys for three generations, free and slave alike," Lelouch asid. "You want to win the war, and that's commendable, but I want to make sure we win the _peace_."

Greyjoy crossed his arms. "This sounds like greenlander talk."

_But you haven't walked away_, _Lord Viking,_ Cici thought.

"Well, how does this sound? A free Lys that counts the Greyjoys and the Ironborn as their fast friends. You'll have a safe harbor from which to launch raids on Volantis and all the slaving fucks beyond. When you dock, your _mast _will be seen to every night without fail, a Lysene beauty on each arm."

"You paint a pretty picture," Greyjoy said, narrowing his eyes. "What's it going to cost?"

"Some restraint is all I ask for," Lelouch said.

"So no pillaging?"

"Oh there'll be plenty of that," Lelouch said, "and raping and murdering too, I imagine. We just need to direct it at the right sort of people."

"And that would be?" Greyjoy asked.

Lelouch smiled that beautiful smile of his, when he was about to right a wrong in the world. "Why, the rich and the powerful, of course."

The Perfumed Sister's walls were not as formidable as the fused back dragonstone of Tyrosh, but then again Lys had been a pleasure paradise for the Valyrians, not a military outpost. Still, Lys' defenses were nothing to scoff at, and it was easy to see why Old Mother had chosen to starve the city into submission rather than take it by brute force of arms.

Those defenses only counted if someone was minding them though.

Lys was spreading its legs wider than an overpaid whore by how easily Corwyn, and now everyone else really, was penetrating her. They'd landed on the easternmost tip of Lys, so there was really only one way to go: deeper into her and further west.

"If we take all the harbors, we'll trap Old Mother in this city," Lelouch said.

Then the pirate queen from Leng would be done for, and her self-interested corsairs would scatter without that critical leadership binding them together.

"Leave that to me," Greyjoy said, lifting up his round shield and axe in hand. Some of Cici's ex-slaves followed behind them, shouting for the people to put down their weapons, that peace and order was being restored to Lys, that the magisters would pay for their crimes, but so would the rioters if they did not stop resisting. The Ironborn shieldwall advanced like the vikings of old, shoving their way in _hard_ and cutting down anyone who chose fight over flight.

There was a time when she might have felt a spark of _something _for the Lyseni, but that was eons ago, long before she'd met Lelouch in this life or the last.

Lelouch sighed. "A bit more brutal than I would've liked, but he's a work in progress."

"Iron doesn't turn brittle overnight," Cici said. "It takes time, and maybe some drowning."

She caught a glint of amusement in his eye before he nodded to Martell.

"Dornishmen, advance!" Martell said. Round shields crafted like the Martell sun interlocked, then advanced in a lockstep motion. Slowly, surely, like a turtle their people once so revered, the orange clad sons of the Rhoyne pushed in, shrugging away thrown rocks and fists and knives. Occasionally, a spear would lash out like a viper, striking at the feet or arms of the most aggressive rabble rousers. More often, the butt of their lemonwood spears would knock the wind out of someone, or their poles would be used to discipline the rowdy Lysene children.

This part of Lys seemed the most unruly judging by the number of trampled bodies, mangled pirate corpses, magisters stabbed half-a-hundred times, and children hanging by their soft silks.

Some, mostly women and children, complied with the calls to stand down. These Lelouch made sure to treat with a gentle hand, taking them safely behind their lines. Food was offered freely, and protection too.

To the slaves who'd been mistreated their whole lives, Lelouch must have seemed an angel.

_A fallen angel, maybe_, Cici thought. _But you had to be. The best of intentions were strangled in imperfect, cruel worlds unless you _struggled_._

Movement caught the corner of her eye.

It was a boy, no older than ten, moving in slow, pained motions you'd think he was an old man with old bones. "Please, help me!"

One of her people approached him. "Come, there is food this way, and healers if you—"

The boy pushed through despite the pain, reaching out to grab the sleeve of her dress like a drowning man reached for driftwood. "Please, my sister…"

His blood _thrummed_. There was promise here… power. Oh, it was but a faint plucking, a softly strummed guitar, but it was there. Cici considered him again, a head of moonlight mixed with honey and eyes like the summer sky with a hint of Valryian twilight in them.

"What's your name?" Cici asked.

"Darys," the boy said bitterly, like it was a curse.

_Ironic_, Cici thought. "You were saying about your sister?"

"We were separated before the mobs went wild," Darys said, eyes locked in a staring contest with the cobblestone. "She's with the master, but…"

"But masters are dying like flies lately," Cici said. "Do you know where?"

He shook his head. "I know not the name, but I can take you there. Please, she's only a girl of nine."

Cici let out a high-pitched whistle and a score of her men and women appeared at her side. "We're going on a little sidequest."

**-ZeroRequiem-**

Corwyn eyed the motley crew with apprehension. "Lelouch will not like this."

Sending his brother's lover into this wilderness of a city with nothing but some freshly freed collars and a boy of ten with the look of old Valyria?

He shook his head. "Lelouch won't like this _at all_."

"It's not up to him," Cici said. "I'm going."

"At least wait for the city to cool off a bit more," Corwyn said, tugging at his silver hair with both hands.

The boy said something in the flowing, liquid dialect of Lys.

"It will be too late when the danger has passed," Cici said. "No, I'm leaving now. You're welcome to join us if you're so worried."

"This is a fool's task," Corwyn protested.

"All adventures are in the story of knights," Cici said. "That's what makes them _interesting_, the uncertainty of the outcome."

Corwyn glanced at the burned wreckage not far from him so recently put out by the adhoc water brigade. They'd found charred bodies inside… children by the size of them, though there wasn't enough to say if they were born high or low. He grimaced. "The outcome of being burned or butchered by this mob of peasants?"

"We've got spears, and they have knives," Cici said. "Or are you telling me the big brave knight in his fancy armor is _scared_ of some smallfolk?"

_Was this all a mummer's farce to her? _Corwyn shook his head and turned to Ser Dennis, the Knight of the Seax. "Ser Dennis, inform my brother of this foolishness if you would. I will venture out with Lady Cici to keep her from harm."

He might not be a knight yet, but he was a squire of Lord Leyton Hightower and the second son of Jaron Velaryon. No ex-slave could offer protection better than a man in a plate of glittering steel.

"You compound the things Lord Lelouch would find objectionable about this," Ser Dennis said. "You ought to at least bring more men with."

"They'll only slow us down," Cici said, already walking away with the boy in tow.

Corwyn groaned in frustration. "Insufferable witch. They're leaving now, there's no time to rally more men. I will have to do."

Ser Dennis nodded. "Tides take you, my lord."

"Where it flows, Ser Dennis," Corwyn said as he ran up to Cici who'd slipped into an alley that branched away from the main streets. He unsheathed his sword as he stepped over a slumped woman, bruised and bleeding between her legs. "Where are we even going?"

"To a master's house where winter roses bloom," Cici said cryptically.

More of her madness. Winter roses didn't grow, much less bloom, in tropical climates. _Why did you have to fall in love with a crazy person, Brother_.

They drifted further and further from the drums and trumpets and the words of great houses. The further they drifted, the deeper his grimace became.

The spring heat did things to men's minds, and it was a hot spring that promised a scorching summer.

Lys was old and decadent and vain, perpetually teetering like a tower built on rotting wood. It's collapse had come suddenly, _violently_, but not without prodigies and portents enough. The air was a dark, angry, choking thing, filled with smoke and the foul stench of fish and other rotting things. Centuries of degeneracy, moral decay, and slavery finally swept clean by blood and fire.

Each person did as they saw fit. A hundred thousand angry voices blurred into an indecipherable, omnipresent _noise_.

Broken bodies at the hands of a broken people blanketed the streets. People choked on silk scarves. Manses were burned. He heard the sound of whips from a public square where a crowd had formed. They cheered as a man was scourged to death before their eyes.

Vultures cried overhead. The rats grew fat. Blood seeped into the cracks and crevices of cobblestone.

_If this is what a just war looks like_, Corwyn thought, _I dread to see what just a war is._

It was luck and by the Mother's merciful hand they'd not run into anyone willing to test them, though a few seemed to consider it. Always, Cici would bark something out in a strange, guttural tongue that he knew was Lysene, yet sounded nothing like it. Always, the people would run rather than die.

In the moments between those, Cici would speak to the boy, Darys, in a gentle tone.

"What have you found out?" Corwyn asked.

"He's a mummer," Cici said, "or he used to be, before his old master sold him and his sister for a considerable sum. To a foreigner too, though Darys does not know from where he came."

"What of his parents?"

"What of them?" Cici asked. "Dead, most likely. If he ever knew them that is. Oh, we're here."

Corwyn blinked.

The house Darys brought them to was… pristine, somehow, with winter roses blooming in its garden. This deep into Lys, its serenity bothered Corwyn more than the charred husks besides it. He wasn't the only one judging by the murmured words and tense stances of Cici's score.

"What now?" Corwyn asked.

"What else? We go onwards," Cici said.

Three of them stepped forward, but no one else. "Just us?" Corwyn asked, glancing at the guards rooted in their spots.

"You're a squire in glittering steel, and the master will be a fat man in silks," Cici said. "Or are you telling me the big brave knight in his fancy armor is scared of a coin counter?"

He grunted and barrelled past her, trying the door, but it was locked shut. Corwyn gripped his sword with both hands—

Cici placed a hand on his arm. "Let's try knocking first, shall we? There's no reason not to be civil. Just don't eat or drink anything he offers."

"You think he'd poison us, and still you'd offer him courtesy?" Corwyn asked incredulously.

"If I was uncouth to everyone trying to kill me, you'd never see me behaving," she said.

Darys put on a brave face as she knocked, but the shake in his hands would not leave him.

"Westerosi?" a voice like velvet called out.

"One of us is," Cici replied. "We found your wayward king."

The man laughed cheerily. "He is king no longer. I've had my use of him."

"He might surprise you," Cici said.

"I doubt that." The door's lock unlatched and it creaked open. The man was thin, not fat, and dressed in linen, not silk. "You, on the other hand, might do the trick. Please, come in."

The hall was lined with low burning candles, yet when Corwyn stepped inside he could barely see his feet. Keeping to the walls covered in warm dust, he crept along the halls behind Cici, squinting as his eyes tried to make out anything in the dark that would not end.

"Your accent is Myrish," Cici said. "What brings you so far away from home, master?"

"I am no master, not yet," he said. "Just an adept, however skilled I am. There is another greater than I who resides in Myr, and he foresaw its destruction at the hands of your lord."

Corwyn's hairs rose. _Magic_?

"Prophecies are dangerous things," Cici said. "Run from it and it finds you. Run towards it and it eludes you."

"Very wise," the Adept said. "It certainly found me here, a city in passion stained red. Next will be Myr, I think, as the city of slavers turned black. Then a third, though the words elude me."

"There are many cities of slavers," Cici said. "Volantis, Qarth, those of Slaver's Bay…"

"Lelouch Velaryon has no quarrel with them," the Adept said.

"Not yet," Cici said.

"You had a slave girl," Corwyn said, finding his voice small in the encroaching darkness.

Finally, they reached the end of the hall and entered into a round chamber filled with tomes and tonics, bubbling reagents and crushed leaves, flowers, and roots. In the center was a glass candle, cracked and unlit.

"I used to," the Adept answered, walking over to a table and stirring his tonics, "but her blood was weaker than the boy's even. I have no use for useless things."

"Where is she now?" Cici asked.

The Adept did not answer. Instead, he held out a goblet to each of them. "Are you thirsty? I'd be a poor host if I didn't offer you something to drink."

Cici accepted hers, smiled at Corwyn, and—

The Adept screamed as his tonic splashed his face, stumbling backwards into a heap.

Cici stood over him, drawing a dagger from her sleeve, and planted her foot on his neck. "You should really know better than to leave the ingredients of your tonics out in the open. Someone might see," she said.

"It was just tea!"

"A very _hot_ tea," Cici said. "Something to leave us immobile and speechless?"

The Adept bit his tongue.

"Now the girl, where is she?" Cici asked, leaning down to press the dagger against his face.

The man blurted out something in Lyseni, then the boy, Darys was on the Adept in an instant, bringing both his fists together. He smashed down once, twice, thrice—

—and Corwyn reached out, putting a stop to this _madness_. It seemed to grow noisier outside.

Darys glared at him, screaming something unintelligible to his ears.

"He took my future, my family," Cici said. "He is a slaver, an abomination against your gods. Why do you stop me?"

"This is not justice, just revenge," Corwyn said.

"Then who ought to judge him?" Darys said and Cici translated.

"One wiser than any of us," Corwyn said. "My brother, Lelouch Velaryon."

Cici seemed to find that amusing, but she repeated his words nonetheless. Then, she added a few more of her own.

Darys stared at her for a long while before standing.

"What did you say to him?" Corwyn asked. _I really need to learn some Valyrian_.

"That we might find his sister yet," Cici said. "The Adept sold her to a brothel, though he doesn't remember which one. Still, I'm sure a pleasant stroll seeing the sights of Lys will jog his memory."

Corwyn pulled the man to his feet, keeping his sword to the man's throat as they made their way outside. _Ash_, he realized. The walls were covered in ash, not warm dust.

It seemed whatever vile magic had been placed on the house faded, for a crowd had gathered and kept barely at bay by Cici's men and women. It was smaller than those they'd seen on the way here.

They shouted something, and Cici replied calmly. A path formed, and then the house went up in flames behind them.

"What did they want?" Corwyn asked.

"To burn the manse," Cici said.

"And you just let them? We're supposed to be returning this city to order, not helping the people burn more of it down," Corwyn said.

"We're also to channel anger at the rich and powerful," Cici said. "Besides, our guest will be dead soon enough. As far as I'm concerned, the house is free real estate. Let the people do as they wish and release some of their anger on something acceptable."

The smoky skies were beginning to clear and the crowds seemed to be settling down other than the occasional lynching. It didn't take much longer to find Darys' sister afterwards. She was a small thing, with big blue eyes that looked hollow and pale gold for hair streaked with silver.

She looked almost like Alarra when she was younger, if not for the golden hair.

Darys kept murmuring to her, but she was insensate. The only word he understood of it all was "Serra".

**-ZeroRequiem-**

Darys held tightly to her sister's hand as the squire carried her in his arms. She remained unresponsive to his calls, put into stupor by some foul drink they gave young girls in the brothels.

Darys scowled and glanced behind him, where the master and madame were bound and held at spearpoint. _At least those responsible will face justice for this._

The city seemed to have been drained of its anger, but what it left in its wake was a scarred land that would take decades to truly heal. Though he was not sure what awaited Lys after this day. There didn't seem a single living magister left, and he'd heard rumors the Old Mother was found trampled, her guards either overrun or abandoning her as she fled to the docks.

They reached the public forum at last where the banners of the Seahorse flew from atop buildings.

A carpet had been laid out to the side, with tapestries piled high on it.

In the center of it all, surrounded by men in steel and a crown of his people, was the one they called Lelouch Velaryon. Though his hair was black as night, he was without doubt from the blood of Old Valyria. His eyes and the manner he held himself spoke of his long lineage.

As Cici described to Lelouch all that had come to pass, his face grew wroth. His justice was swift for the crime of slavery, drawing his sword in a smooth arc and opened up the master and madame in six long strikes.

Cici and the squire, Corwyn, fell silent at his actions, impressed as Darys by his decisiveness no doubt.

Darys kneeled before him. "Truly, you are a man more worthy to be named king than I."

"I'm just a man," Lelouch said, without the faintest hint he was not Lyseni.

"If you are just a man, then so am I," Darys declared. "Your people tell me I am free now?"

"It is so."

"Then of my own free will I spit on the name _Darys_," the boy said.

"You will need a new name," Lelouch said.

_Valar means all men, _the boy thought. "I shall be named Varys," the boy said, and Varys liked the sound of it.


	24. The State of Lys

**Chapter 24: The State of Lys**

He could imagine what Uncle Adamm had liked in this city of splendor. Even after the riots, there was a subtle beauty to it all, now made tragic.

"They're calling it the Day of Great Passion," Cici said in Lyseni, as she was wont to do whenever Varys trailed her like a lost puppy. The boy was becoming an increasingly familiar sight to Lelouch on their walks through the city.

"Not even a month and they're already romanticizing it," Lelouch replied in turn. The scorched district they walked through offered a clear view of the Seraglio. Atop the Hill of Lys, the First Magister's official residence was one of the last manses surviving the "Day of Great Passion", though thankfully most of those had been looted thoroughly before they were torn down.

He'd never have found enough tapestries otherwise.

"They can't very well refer to it as a rape or despoilment," Cici said. "After all, it was themselves that did most of the damage."

"Nobody wants to be the villain," Lelouch said.

"That never stopped you," Cici said.

Lelouch's eyes swept through their surroundings. "What I did had to be done. That doesn't mean I enjoyed it."

She smiled.

Lys' impoverishment would take years to recover from, and the visible injuries decades to scar over, but it still wasn't clear to _anyone _how the political forum would be reshaped. When Old Mother had seized the city, she'd purged the preeminent political and military leaders. The riots had dealt with Old Mother's appointees, the conclave of magisters, all the wealthy patrons, and most of the middle class.

Simply put, anyone who could have afforded to keep their families well fed were, well, _fed_ to the mobs.

The richest citizens that yet lived were the madames of the various pillow houses. The crowds had initially ignored the brothels at first for more deserving targets, like the men who'd owned those establishments. For rather obvious reasons, his men had an interest in seeing these places well protected once they penetrated Lys. Suddenly freed from their masters, the madames found no one left to challenge them if they decided it was they that should inherit the business.

And boy, was business _booming_.

The movable wealth of Lys was now the movable wealth of Westeros, and there wasn't much else on the island worth buying. There were even places, he'd heard, where a man could spend the night with a pair of great beauties if he brought them a slice of pizza.

It had been a feat of logistics that he and Greyjoy had found enough food in the twice torched hinterlands to keep Lys from rising in anger again, but none of his guards slept easy yet. _At least the water levels are holding steady. Hopefully, we'll put an end to the shortages permanently after today_.

"The situation with the madames will need to be dealt with soon after," Cici said.

At the mention of them, Varys' features twisted into something dark, savage and monstruous to behold. It was the look of a boy who'd destroy the world for his sister.

"I know," Lelouch said, grimacing. "They will have three days after the food arrives to comply, or die. I care not which."

Cici nodded, then turned to Varys. "How is your sister faring?"

"Those… _places_, they scare her still," Varys said, "but Serra has stopped screaming in the dead of night at least and she eats better than most while we are guests of yours. She's taken a liking to those strange pies of yours, the ones with the salted ham and pineapples. What others are calling the Lysene slice."

"She has good taste," Cici said.

"You'll say that of anyone who likes pizza, toppings aside," Lelouch said.

"I don't see your point," she said.

"All of Lys eats pizzas daily," Lelouch said. Not entirely for want either, but the pies were extremely portable and could be assembled from flour and basically anything edible. It was the logical choice to feed the masses with when working with scraps, and water was not so plentiful they could make a thin soup.

Cici nodded sagely. "They've seen the light. Now they may call themselves civilized."

As they crossed the gate which led into the Pearl Harbor, Lelouch breathed in the immaculate white sands and pleasure barges floating amiably over the sparkling, pristine waters. It was little wonder the dragonlords of old Valyria had turned the island into their retreat. Even now on his tenth visit, he was tempted to forget the troubles waiting if he but turned around, and enjoy the untouched slice of paradise.

_Quellon Greyjoy certainly was, _Lelouch thought as he spied the Kraken banner flying over a slow moving barge. Not that it wasn't earned. If not for the Ironborn, the harbor would be in no shape to receive shipments, or have any shipments to receive.

On the horizon, the _Patron Far-eye _sailed towards them accompanied by a fleet of exiled Myrmen.

Ser Beren Bryne, whose young face was old to Lelouch now, was already seeing to moving some barges aside so that the Myrmen could unload their goods in an expedient fashion.

"Ser Spend-all has come far," Cici said. "From having to be rescued from his own debts to overseeing this sort of logistical operation without prompting."

"I suppose I ought to thank him one of these days," Lelouch said. "If not for him, we might never have met as soon as we did."

Cici hummed, then took out a silk kerchief and blinded Varys. It was a memory game she liked training the boy with. "What did you notice?" she asked.

As Varys answered in halting Common, occasionally scowling as he had to use a Lyseni word, Lelouch walked over to Beren.

"Lord Velaryon," the young knight said, bowing.

"Fine work here, Ser Beren," Lelouch said. "I'm glad to see you fully recovered from your near drowning at Pryr."

"I wouldn't dream of rest before my debts to you were paid for in full," Beren said. "You rescued myself and my house from a great dishonor, being called into account by a coin counter."

"You've more than paid it back by now," Lelouch said. "I have not forgotten your loyalty since that night in Myr, or your leal service at Bloodstone and Pryr." The knight had been one of those who'd volunteered to delay the Tyroshi fleet, and was allowed only on the technicality that he'd sired a bastard back home, even if he was yet unmarried.

"My lord father taught me not to squander second chances," Beren said.

Lelouch placed a hand on his shoulder. "If you've truly learned some restraint in matters of coin, there will be boon awaiting you in the future beyond the great wealth you've won. I have a great need for good men."

"Is that why you've been courting the Myrish, my lord?" Beren asked.

"Them, and others," Lelouch said. He had men scoping out masters of sweetwaters and sour wines and tasteless tears most bitter to widows. Smiths too, alongside weavers, with plenty of apprentices bearing the looks of old Valyria. Even the rowdiest men who found they liked the taste of violence were being pressed to join Cici's contingent. The city would welcome a few thousand venturers when it would take the end of spring 'til they rested easy over food.

Beren bit his tongue.

"Speak your thoughts," Lelouch said. "I will not hold what you say against you."

"Is it wise to bring more foreign peoples to settle in Driftmark, my lord?" Beren asked. "My father has made mention that the Myrish are not well liked by our own smallfolk as it is."

"It is the nature of people to dislike change," Lelouch said. "I'm aware of the grumbling, but as long as their words remain words and not war, I am content with the state of things for now. Besides, I doubt they will begrudge the Lyseni as much as the Myrish when they come with great treasures."

"If nothing else, they're prettier to look at," Beren said.

The _Patron Far-eye _docked at last, and Magister Zoutos disembarked, showing remarkable spryness for a man with more than a decade on Lelouch's father. Laborers were hard at work carrying ashore sacks of flour, candied fruits, and meats salted, smoked, and dried.

"Exactly on time, Magister Zoutos," Lelouch said.

"I've not broken a contract yet, and I do not intend to start now," Zoutos said, peering at Lys with a thoughtful frown. "I distinctly remember the Perfumed Sister not smelling of smoke and ash last I visited. Is this another trend you've started?"

"Would I do something like that?" Lelouch asked.

"You visited Myr and Myr burned. You visited Lys and Lys burned," Zoutos said. "It's hard not to see the pattern."

"Tyrosh is still whole."

"You did not step foot _in _Tyrosh," Zoutos said, pointing to Cici, who'd snuck up beside him somehow. "She did. You did, however, step foot in the Tyroshi hinterlands, and now that burns too."

Lelouch shrugged. "I destroy cities and create them anew."

"This is an improvement, believe me," Cici said. "He used to destroy worlds."

Zoutos blinked, looking uncertain if she was joking or not, before seeming to decide he _didn't_ want to know. "You intend to pay me back soon, I should hope? This last endeavor saw me parted from the greater portion of my fortune. It may be spring, but the first harvest is still being gathered. War and winter both have not made buying from the Reach cheap."

Lelouch spread his arms wide. "Look around you, my friend. I have the wealth of a Free City to pay you with."

He looked far more disturbed by that prospect than the thought of not getting paid on time, though Lelouch didn't doubt for a second that he wouldn't accept Lysene gold or payment in kind. "You must tell me what has come to pass here."

"Certainly," Lelouch said. "I wouldn't dream of depriving a grandfather stories for his granddaughter. Come, walk with me. You must be tired from your long voyage."

"I've had longer."

So he spoke of the measures they'd taken to save the city from itself, of the massacres by the manic and mad, and of the great flames that burned for a day and a night. Zoutos listened intently, his eyes only drifting when they came across cohorts of Myrish crossbows and Lysene spears flying banners of the shattered collar and broken whip.

"What of Old Mother?" Zoutos asked as his tale came to its end.

"Dead," Lelouch said. "We found what was left of her trampled. We think she and her guards were attempting to reach their ships when a mob found them. Some, her most loyal perhaps, fought to the death, but more fled rather than fight."

"Typical of pirates. They flee at the first hint of stiffening resistance," Zoutos said.

Lelouch didn't know of many men-at-arms or even knights who would have stood their ground against an angry mob. "Most of her pirate fleet, those we didn't catch, have scattered to the four winds. I doubt any of them will return to Maelys in time."

"Then the Blackfyre cause is sunk," Zoutos said. "He cannot win if he cannot cross."

"You speak truly, but the war is not over," Lelouch said. "The war will not be over until Maelys Blackfyre and all who ally with him are buried."

Zoutos nodded. "Then challenges may await you yet. Already I have heard rumors of Volantene gold finding its way to hands in the Verdant Heel. Mighty Braavos falters too, for even the mightiest cannot face four Free Cities without friends."

"Then Volantis has a free hand to act," Lelouch said. With five Free Cities busy in the north for the foreseeable future, Volantis had no other threats to juggle.

"And the Triarchs will," Zoutos said. "What has happened here, the extermination of the magisters… they cannot let this go unanswered. They must order their armies to march or use them on their own people."

"I will have to leave Lys before that happens," Lelouch said. "Hopefully with a functioning government."

"I trust nothing similar will befall Myr?"

Lelouch blinked. "This was not my doing." _Not entirely_.

"No, but I've learned not to underestimate your wit," Zoutos said. "You would have had an inkling, at least, of the mad forces clawing at their leash before you took a blade to it."

"I considered the possibility," Lelouch said. "Rest assured, nothing like this will occur in Myr, not by my hand. Why should I go to such lengths when I have men like you and Magister Glossos to adopt the Pentoshi solution?"

Zoutos looked him in the eye for a long while. "You might have found men willing to work with you here, to accede to your demands."

"I might have," Lelouch said, nodding, "but it would have taken time, with threats and promises alike. Even then I risked dissent and rebellion when I left. So when the riots broke out, I watched them butcher the magisters. This was… _cleaner_, one might say, though the means were ugly beyond doubt."

"Forgive an old man if he suspects a young buck wants more now."

"Greed is ever the downfall of men," Lelouch said. "I would not make an enemy of you needlessly. Besides, I have already gone through the trouble of making promises and threats. Why throw all that away?"

Zoutos continued to eye him with some suspicion.

"Trust in my self-interest if nothing else," Lelouch said. "It has been nightmare enough getting Lys this far, and the work is but half-done."

"So we are still agreed on the Pentoshi solution?" Zoutos asked. "Nothing has changed?"

"I do not make a contract in bad faith. We are in agreement."

"Then I think you ought to know of what I've heard," Zoutos said. "The Dothraki are at Myr. They have been for months now, and have not left."

"Has Lashare found a friend in their khal?" Lelouch asked.

"Who can say? But I caution you, nonetheless. Omorfia has grown fond of your stories," Zoutos said. "I would hate to disappoint her."

**-ZeroRequiem-**

"Your uncle taught you the fundamentals of the spear," Lewyn said as Lelouch's practice staff clattered to the ground, "but that will not be enough against hardened killers."

Lelouch rubbed the back of his reddening hand. "You mentioned something about stances when we were in King's Landing?"

"Ah, those." Lewyn nodded. "There are many of them, but four basic ones every Dornishman is taught. First, the phalanx." He held his spear with both hands, pointing it at Lelouch's head, chest, then torso. "Simple, defensive, and effective at keeping your enemy from reaching you. It is the same form men use when packed together for battle."

"Though you'd be using it with a shield in that case," Lelouch said.

"Rightly so," Lewyn said, rotating the spear so that it's tip nearly kissed the ground. "Next is the viper." He kicked the tip up and thrusted, and if a man was slow in reacting they'd find their neck with a hole in it. "It is a style built on feints and unseen angles of attack."

"A fitting name for it."

"Third is the dancer," Lewyn said, twirling his spear rapidly before jumping into the air and slamming the side of it against an imaginary opponent. Even with a helmet, a blow with that much force to the head would be enough to rattle your skull. "Think of it as a more extravagant form of your ship fighting style. You must be nimble and _flexible_."

Lewyn pulled his spear back into a throwing position and went through the motion slowly. "And finally, the whaler. This is how they do it in Ibb, when hunting those mammoth beasts. I recommend you do this only if you have another weapon in hand."

"Like a knife?" Lelouch asked, pulling out the one strapped to his leg.

"Preferably something with more reach," Lewyn said, "but it'll do if a man is murdering you from up close."

"Thank you for the lesson," Lelouch said. "I'll be sure to practice it."

"Practice _is_ important," Lewyn said.

**-ZeroRequiem-**

"Blackfyre shook loose Ser Gerold's army at Aegador's Scorch," Lewyn said, pacing on his side of the table. "Now they've lost his scent, though we're certain he's somewhere here." He pointed to the central area of the Disputed Lands, far away from the coasts, with the tip of his spear.

With the death of Old Mother and her pirate fleet breaking apart like a Tyroshi galley in a storm, the Band of Nine no longer had any significant strength at sea save the fleet at Myr. Even that, though, was bottled up by Tyrosh's efforts. Crossing the narrow sea safely as things stood had turned from difficult to disastrously naive for the Blackfyre cause.

"He looks like he's given up on crossing for now," Quellon said, propping his feet atop the table where the pirate queen from Leng ate her last supper on. A supple thing of six and ten placed a goblet of red wine in his hand. "Ah, the sweet taste of youth."

_The wine or the woman? _Lelouch thought, before deciding the reaver probably meant both.

"Ser Gerold and Lord Baratheon agree for once, if you can believe it," Lewyn said. "Seven knows I still struggle with the thought. They believe Volantis has sent an army to aid Blackfyre."

"Miracle of miracles," Lelouch said, studying the map intently as he stood from his seat. He pointed at the Gateway—a stretch of land connecting the Disputed Lands to what was nominally Volantene land. To its north was the Lake of Myrth, whose mouth flowed out into the sea with the same name, while the south was the fast flowing Adere River that stretched until the Orange Shore. "If the Volantenes are coming, they will have to cross through here, or test their ships against ours."

"It will be through land. They've shite shipwrights and seamen," Quellon said.

"I would call them serviceable," Lewyn said, setting the butt of his spear on the ground and putting weight on it.

"Bah, you live in a place without water. What would you know about ships?" Quellon asked in a jesting tone.

Lewyn grinned. "You're wrong, of course, but not about the Volantenes going over land. We've not seen any preparations for a fleet large enough to reasonably challenge us. To that end, Ser Gerold has ordered the armies to the Gateway to hold it against Volantis. Prevent our foes from joining together."

"Couldn't they go around it?" Quellon asked. "Spring's settled in, and there'll be spots along the river that could be forded."

"They might, but we'll be bringing our ships to patrol the stretch of it," Lewyn said.

"Ser Gerold wouldn't be fast enough to beat Blackfyre to the Gateway if he went by land either," Lelouch said, sitting back down. "The other route the Volantenes can take is to go around the lake, through Myrish lands, and hope the river feeding the lake runs shallow. It would be a lengthy endeavor, at least a month longer for disciplined foot to fully circumvent."

"We'll have to leave Lys soon then," Quellon said in a wistful tone, looking into his cup. "I'll miss this. We really ought to have taken the city sooner."

Lewyn snorted. "It was our great fortune that we took it as bloodlessly as we did. I shudder to think of the men that might've died had Lys been at its peak."

"I think I might have preferred that. Making a woman with a little fight to her _submit_ is far more enjoyable than the docile does you greenlanders prefer," Quellon said. "I would've thought a Dornishman would know all about foreplay, though I suppose donning the white cloak has constricted you down there."

"They make us say many pretty things when we're given these pretty cloaks," Lewyn said, pinching his cloak of velvet, "but they do not ask us to make a chastity belt from such soft things. Just that no offspring is forthcoming from our paramours."

_Is that your interpretation or the king's?_ Lelouch thought. Jaehaerys was a wise man who would not give an order men wouldn't obey. Turning a blind eye to the proclivities of a Prince of Dorne was just good politics.

"The city will need to be put in order before we depart," Lelouch said. "What use will it be if we're forced to return a week after we leave?" He was as eager as any to leave the city, to bring Blackfyre down, to pry his uncle from Myr—but not at the cost of subjecting tens of thousands to another unsettling uprising.

Ser Gerold may have ordered them south to block Old Mother's fleet, but he hadn't told Lelouch to starve the city into a frenzy. It had just seemed the most _expedient _means of being done with the mission.

"I don't understand why all the delay to begin with," Quellon said. "Not that I haven't enjoyed my time here, but why is it so difficult to pick someone to lead? Hold a kingsmoot and be done with it."

"They have no kings in Essos," Lewyn said, twirling his spear in a well-practiced way that ended with it resting across his shoulders.

"That can be changed," Quellon said, pointing his thumb to Lelouch. "As this one likes to say, the situation is malleable. Let them acclaim a king from their own men."

_Yet it is the women who are most powerful right now_, Lelouch thought. "When a person's chief concern is when their next meal will be, they don't tend to care much for who will rule in a month's time. Besides, anyone who might have thought to make themselves a king is now dead. Lys has no leaders left."

"It is from hard times that great men are forged. Iron sharpens iron," Quellon said.

"Leave the matter of Lys to me," Lelouch said, standing once more. "I assure you their house will be put to order."

Lewyn and Quellon shared a look, before nodding.

"Among my people, a captain of his ship owes his crew a fair share of plunder after every voyage," Quellon said. "You did right by us after we took this city, even sang us praises to the king and named us equal in the taking of Lys, when you might have claimed the lion's share of glory for yourself."

"Your men were instrumental. I could not have done it with the crownlanders alone," Lelouch said.

"Yet, the idea was yours, and you said it was ours," Lewyn said. "Dorne has not forgotten. Do as you please with Lys, we will back you to the hilt if needed."

"You honor me, my friends," Lelouch said.

_Glory I have plenty of, but glory's only use is to gather men to your cause._

**-ZeroRequiem-**

"The madames are waiting," Cici said, seated across the desk.

"Let them wait a while longer," Lelouch said, turning to Ser Beren and handing him an ornate wooden box. "Ensure that the ships have room for the tapestries bound for King's Landing. As for the box, it is to be brought to my mother directly."

"It will be done, my lord," Beren said, taking the box with both hands. "I will see to the Lyseni boarding the magister's fleet as well."

"Take care that sweet Serra makes it aboard," Cici said. "Varys too. That boy's more slippery than freshly caught eel."

Beren looked to Lelouch.

"See to it," Lelouch said.

"By your leave, my lord?"

"Tides take you where it flows, Ser Beren," Lelouch said, taking a seat behind the First Magister's desk of sturdy ironwood. It must've cost a fortune shipping it from the North, and knowing the Essosi, the ludicrous price was the whole point of the purchase. When the knight departed, Lelouch nodded to Cici.

She clapped her hands once, twice, and the guards by the grand double doors opened them outwards. A stream of women filled in, armored in all manner of brightly colored fabrics and armed with fans and hairpins.

_I wonder which of them had been Mysaria's madame_? Lelouch thought, his gaze sweeping the room. _What would she think, knowing her courtesan's pupil at cyvasse now holds the fate of her city in his palm? _

The room was tense, holding its breath while they watched him watch them. "I trust," Lelouch began, "that the food has made its way to your girls?"

"Everything is as you've promised us, Lord Seafyre," Madame Serenys replied. She was in her forties, too old to be a pillow girl, but not yet robbed of her vigor or her wits. It was why her former master had raised her high, why the madames had raised her higher.

"Good." Lelouch steepled his fingers. "You all know why I've called you here."

"You would like us to set our girls free," Serenys said, "and as we have said before, they are as free as a Myrman in Driftmark."

For newly emancipated ex-slaves, they were surprisingly resistant to abolishing the system that had kept them shackled for so long. Surprising, until one realized that now they were its primary beneficiaries. How different the world looked when looking down instead of up.

"When I made an agreement with the Myrish magisters, they had something to bargain with. Something I needed," Lelouch said.

"We have plenty of things a man your age _needs_," Serenys said, putting a well-practiced seductive _purr_ to it.

Lelouch showed her his teeth. "Do not mistake my wants for needs, Serenys." His eyes hardened. "Do not mistake my youth for folly." He pushed back his chair and stood at last. "Do not mistake your _newfound power _as strength. My men may enjoy your girls, but you? You yourself are _nothing _to them, and I am everything."

"There's no need for harshness, my lord, though—" she licked her lips. "—I do enjoy some hardness. You wanted the girls freed, and they are."

"They are permanently indebted in the way of the Pentoshi," Lelouch said. "That is not true freedom."

"This one has heard it was enough for you, a little over a year ago," said Sweet Sister of Lorath.

"Many things can change over such a stretch of time," Cici said, crossing one leg over the other. "I was once a slave. Now, I am mayor of ten thousand and mistress of three thousand spears. Lord Velaryon was but a boy then, a name worth little to the Myrish. Now he is the victor of three great battles, the bane of three ninepenny kings, and has brought low two of the Free Cities with words and swords."

"We were once slaves as well, and now we hold the debts of a thousand girls each," Serenys said, unfurling her crimson fan.

An exaggeration, but he understood her point. After the Day of Great Passion, flocks of young women had been driven into the arms of the madames by hunger and fear of the mobs. They were blind, not to realize that the only thing monsters feared were bigger monsters. For their food and baths they were charged a ruinous rate. None had sought to appeal to the Westerosi or the shattered collars and broken whips for fear of going hungry in the dark, cold embrace of night.

"So you understand opportunity, and the heights one can reach," Lelouch said. "Understand then that I have risen higher than any of you ever will."

"Lys looks to you for guidance," Sweet Sister said with a slight bow.

"So long as this war continues, Lys will look to me for more than guidance," Lelouch said, walking around the table. "The debts will be cancelled, in full, _today_. If any of you think to cheat me or play a trick, I will know, then you will _know_ why a trained spearman is to be feared more than a mob of fists and foul language."

"Do our appeals matter naught?" Serenys asked, no longer hiding her anger behind the silk fan.

"I only listen to people worth listening to," Lelouch said. "Bargain is the privilege shared between the strong. Lys has submitted to my absolute strength, so I will impose my absolute will."

"We could appeal through the Greater Assembly," Sweet Sister said.

"You have among yourselves maybe a hundred votes, if that, out of eight hundred," Cici said, standing beside Lelouch.

It had been decreed that a representative be chosen from every thousand souls, and the madames had played the game to win. All they needed was a majority. With each having hundreds of girls bondaged to them, all they needed was a few more men to tip things in their favor and that was nothing some bondage with girls couldn't solve.

"We have friends," Serenys said.

"Would you like to gamble on that?" Lelouch asked. "Would you like to gamble _against _me?"

Her bare shoulders sunk, and her head dipped. "We will do as you command, Lord Seafyre. The debts will be erased."

"Good," Lelouch said. "Now, get out."

When the doors shut, Cici raised a brow at him. "That was harsher than I expected."

"They need to be provoked to act against me after we depart."

"That's why you've asked a thousand of mine to stay behind, so that things will not descend into public violence while the factions rip each other to shreds," Cici said. "They will stagnate, deadlock themselves with inaction as every representative feuds with every other."

Lelouch nodded. "_Democracy_… we both know such a thing could never last in a place like this. Not even their first election survived the trappings of oligarchy. Imagine what a teetering mess it will be in a year? No, best we strangle this silly notion of self-rule being viable while it lies in its cradle."

"It will destabilize Lys," Cici said.

There was no system that was perfectly protected from the dark things that lurked inside men. Making Lys whole was like reforging a broken sword: it needed the hammering of adversity, the anvil of discipline, and time… time he didn't have. "A few months is all I need," Lelouch said. "If we return just in time to save them from their own incompetence, all the better. Lovely Lys will look to Westeros for stability after the war ends, though not as a part of the Seven Kingdoms."

"That _would _be a grave overreach," Cici said. "Greed is ever the downfall of men, as you're fond of saying."

"As a close ally though, who pays Westeros to defend it from a hostile Volantis and overeager Tyrosh? That might be a peace Braavos could live with if its humbled in its own war," Lelouch said.

How do you devour a whale? One bite at a time.

"You can put this city behind you at last," Cici said. "Now for the last of the Three Daughters: Myr."

The war with Blackfyre, the Sacred Struggle, all the atrocities of war… it had all been leading up to this: his vengeance on Liomond Lashare.

"Now for my uncle," Lelouch said.

**AN: **For those of you who want a map of the Gateway, Adere River, and that part of Essos, you may find these things threadmarked under Informational on Spacebattles.


	25. What Sellswords Lack

**Chapter 25: What Sellswords Lack**

Lelouch set down his far-eye, and frowned.

"Liomond Lashare deigns to show up at last with ten thousand spears a flag of parley," Ser Gerold said.

"He's been recruiting," Lelouch said. "Lashare wouldn't have left Myr without garrison and last I saw him he had just the eight thousand between the Battleborne and Jolly Fellows."

Gerold looked back to their still disembarking force. The Adere River narrowed to some eleven hundred feet when it bent east, away from the Gateway. It was room enough for thirty galleys to sail side-by-side, and still pivot, but only just.

"It will be some hours before we're ready to fight them," he said. "Let's see what he has to say."

Among the great lords that rode with them up the gently cresting hill were Ser Marthew Crakehall, Brynden Tully, Rodrik Cassel, Barristan Selmy, and a spattering of other knights and second sons. The truly great lords of the realm had not been with the first wave for fear that Maelys would already be here, lying in wait. Seven forbid he manage to seize a Targaryen, a Stark or an Arryn…

Gerold Hightower was likely the most valuable potential hostage present by virtue of his birth, yet he was kingsguard. White cloaks were meant to be stained red, so why not today should the gods will it?

The men they'd been left to work with then were an odd mix of competent and expendable lords.

Barristan the Bold's sword arm was a growing legend, having cut down ten and six hardened killers at Naqes so that Lord Baratheon could be rescued. Brynden Tully's great skill at outriding had saved the hosts when they danced with the Golden Company by four times engaging in fierce skirmish to keep the lines of communication open. Rodrick Cassel had bloodied his men greatly to break the stream of reinforcements which threatened to overwhelm Prince Aerys at Guardian Isle whilst the Yronwoods fought through to them.

Then there was Marthew Crakehall, the Great "Boar", and a cousin to Lord Sumner.

"Lord Velaryon," Marthew said as they rode, "I hear your lord father has not arranged a betrothal for you yet."

Brynden audibly sighed. Barristan shot him a look of sympathy. Rodrick found the windswept grass quite splendid, and Lelouch was certain they had the same grass in the north.

"Not for lack of trying," Lelouch said politely.

"I've a lovely sister back home, Amarei," Marthew said. "She's a sweet thing, nearly five and ten. Strong too, with hips that will bear many children. She'll have just flowered when we finish with Blackfyre too."

"You should point her out when we return. I'm sure her virtues are like the Maiden's," Lelouch said.

Marthew beamed at him and rode further ahead.

"How'd you manage that?" Brynden asked. "I haven't seen him stop pestering anyone so quickly since he was ordered onto the ship with us."

"The man's desperate to see his sister wed," Lelouch said, shrugging. "His strategy appears to be to cast as wide a net as possible. Show some interest, tell him you need time to consider it, and be on with your business."

Not that Lelouch could blame the Great Bore, even if he was going about it all wrong. Old Walder has been eyeing the Crakehall knight's sister since before the war, so Tywin had said, and Marthew had begged off giving answer to Lord Frey while he was off at war. The Crakehall knight couldn't hope for a better match than a lord, but that he cared enough to try and and snag someone closer to her age was commendable as far as Lelouch was concerned. If he could not find a match and soon, he'd have to accept House Frey's coming proposition or cause offense.

_Or did Old Walder want Genna's hand for himself?_ Lelouch had not forgotten how the lecherous old man's eyes liked to wander at Duskendale.

Their party came to a pause some fifty feet from Lashare's. Two riders came forth from the sellswords.

"Ser Seafyre, ride with me," Gerold said, using his legs to urge his charger forward.

Lelouch did the same to keep pace with the White Bull in his white cloak on his white horse.

_They like the color all too much,_ Lelouch thought, wrinkling his nose.

"You have the honor," began the one-eared man besides Lashare, a lieutenant of some sort, "of being in the presence of Captain-Magister Liomond Lashare, the Lord of Battles, the Master of Myr."

Lashare waved the man off, eyes glinting like hardened steel. "No need for formalities. We're all old acquaintances here, aren't we? My, how high you've risen little Seahorse." The sellsword almost sounded _proud_.

"You have the _honor_," Lelouch spat out, "of being before Ser Gerold Hightower, the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, the White Bull, and Commander of the Host of All Westeros."

"Such vitriol," Lashare said, shaking his head. "I thought your lords were taught your courtesies while us sellswords were taught the killing?"

"We offer courtesy and killing both to each man as they are deserving," Gerold said.

"Ah, so it _can_ be won?" Lashare said. "It's just a matter of killing the right person then."

"If you've nothing left to say, we'll be on our way," Gerold said.

"Let's not be hasty, Ser Gerold. We might still be friends before this is over," Lashare said.

"You serve Maelys Blackfyre," Lelouch said. "There can be no peace."

"I serve," Lashare said, tone correcting, "the one true king of Westeros."

"Who is that in your mind?" Gerold asked.

Lashare smiled and his teeth were all daggers. "Why, the one who pays me best of course! A man has to make a living, and I make mine selling my swords. It's in the name, you see."

"We could arrange to have gold delivered to your tent," Gerold said dryly.

"Bah!" Lashare said. "Pretty, shiny circles, but my… tastes, shall we say, have been elevated by the fine luxuries of Myr. I'm nobility now, don't you know?"

"Does one not need to be _noble_ to be nobility?" Lelouch asked.

"Was it noble of your uncle to launch a coup against you?" Lashare tilted his head. "Was it noble of Adamm Velaryon to have a whore in every city?"

Lelouch gritted his teeth.

"What, pray tell, suits your tastes now?" Gerold asked.

"The same things your knights in bloodied steel and high lords on high mounts like," Lashare said. "Power and prizes."

"Blackfyre made you the king of a Free City," Lelouch said.

"_Blackfyre,_" Lashare hissed, "made me _nothing_."

Lelouch blinked.

"I thought you served his cause," Gerold said.

Lashare laughed. "We were only ever allies of convenience. As he's so fond of saying, what does a sellsword lack? Loyalty. Haven't you noticed how I kept my men away, how my ships did not sail to Tyrosh's aid?"

_Was that what he'd been up to all this time? _"Then why should we trust you to stay loyal to the Targaryen cause?" Lelouch asked.

"You shouldn't," Lashare said candidly. "What you should trust is my self-interest. Blackfyre has no prizes left to offer me, but the Iron Throne does."

"Ser Gerold," Lelouch said, "you cannot seriously be considering—"

Gerold raised a hand and Lelouch quieted. "The Iron Throne cannot give you a lordship or be seen treating with a man who condones slavery."

"I don't need you to give me a lordship," Lashare said, tilting his head. "Just acknowledge me as the rightful ruler of Myr, and soon Tyrosh and Lys will follow if the rumors I've heard of Velaryon are true. Why, even the Sealord will have to acknowledge me after that. As for the slavery, let's be rid of it then. It's not my fortune under threat and I should like an excuse to humble the merchants once more."

"You'll release your prisoners of war?" Gerold asked.

"Every last one," Lashare promised.

"You'll throw your ten thousand men against Maelys?" Lelouch asked.

Their own host numbered fifty thousand once more after the reinforcements Lord Ormund had brought and the losses they'd suffered. Blackfyre was estimated to have some fifteen thousand men left, though to a man they were hardened veterans. As for the Volantene vanguard, their best guess stood at thirty thousand slave swords and sellswords.

If Blackfyre and the Volantenes united, the battle would be close. If Lashare joined his men to theirs, it wouldn't be.

"For the right price," Lashare said.

"Mastery of one Free City is not enough?" Gerold asked.

"It's not two Free Cities," Lashare said. "My services do not come cheaply now that I rule a city. If I join Maelys, suddenly, you'll find yourselves outnumbered instead of outnumbering."

"You just said he has nothing to offer you and that your services do not come cheaply. I cannot see you giving it to him for nothing," Gerold said.

"I'm no fool, Ser Hightower. Either we'll have made peace and sworn eternal friendship _here_, or you'll bring war to my footsteps when Maelys is dead. There is no neutral ground to be had anymore," Lashare said, breathing in deeply as he closed his eyes. "Can't you feel it in the air? The anticipation, the stirring of swords?" He opened his grey eyes with a tinge of the summer sky, like castle-forged steel beaten and blued. "This is _it_. This is _the _battle that decides your war. What comes after is cleanup."

"We will have to confer with our prince," Gerold said.

"Go, and confer all you like," Lashare said. "You have until Maelys arrives. Let's call it two days."

Gerold made to return back to their lines.

"I would have a moment with Ser Velaryon," Lashare said. "I'm sure he'd like to know of his uncle."

Gerold looked to Lelouch, and Lelouch nodded tersely.

"He's been treated well," Lashare said. "You have my word, for however little you lords value it."

"I'm glad," Lelouch said.

"Since the Night of the Myrmidons, I had always known you'd amount to something. Few are the men who could've navigated that perilous situation as well as you did," Lashare said. "But I never imagined you would rise to these heights. Now you are a commander of a host over ten times what you had in Myr, and knighted by a crown prince too. What friends in high places you've made for yourself."

"He values my counsel," Lelouch said.

"I'm glad," Lashare said. "For if I do not find the outcome of your talks favorable, your uncle will be treated less well."

Lelouch stiffened, then snarled. "Kill him then, and be done with it. I will not stand here just to be _threatened_."

"I know all about killing," Lashare said. "Killing is a mercy. Your uncle is too fine a navigator. It would be a great waste."

Lelouch blinked. "What?"

"I've made friends with a khal of the Dothraki recently, have you heard?" Lashare asked. "Khal Yaggo and his ten thousand screamers. You can't begin to imagine how hard it is keeping them happy to sit around for months. I'd thought to use them once, you know, but their price was too high."

"Is there a point to all this?" Lelouch asked.

"Your uncle's skill at reading the stars will serve him well in the Great Grass Sea and beyond," Lashare said, pointing to the Lake of Myrth. "I've men ready to deliver him to the khal, just across that lake."

"You'd… you'd make a _slave _of him?" Lelouch asked, failing to keep the dread out of his voice.

"Like I said, killing is a mercy," Lashare said. "Think on your words to the prince wisely."

"Sell my uncle," Lelouch said, shaking, seething, breath _searing_, "and your death will be the least of my revenge. I will _unmake _you from history until you are nothing more than a footnotes' footnote. Your achievements will be _ash and wind_."

Lashare smirked, and rode away heedless.

**-ZeroRequiem-**

"I ordered Ser Brynden Tully east earlier today," Gerold said to the assembled war council. "He has with him outriders on sand steeds and coursers, with skirmishers from the Ironborn for support by sea if needed. Five thousand men all in all to delay the Volantenes for as long as possible while we settle things at last."

_It was a mistake_, Lelouch thought.

"Will the Volantenes not make short work of such a small host?" asked Ser Moryn Tyrell, before biting into a Fossoway apple.

"We believe that the Volantene host must have marched at double time to cover so much ground in so short a time," Gerold answered. "Ser Brynden knows the signs of exhaustion, and will adjust as he sees fit."

Had Lashare already given Uncle Adamm to the khal for his threats?

"This leaves us with forty-five thousand men against Blackfyre's fifteen thousand," Hoster Tully said, leaning forward in his seat. "Twenty-five, if we count Lashare's men with him. An overwhelming numerical advantage, but will Blackfyre allow us to bring them to bear, or will he flee as he is wont to do?"

_No,_ Lelouch thought. Lashare was smarter than that. To sell his uncle would rob him of his most useful threat, and ensure no peace could be made.

It would be a great betrayal for the Iron Throne to agree to peace after a hostage of their principal vassal was sold into slavery. Not just to House Velaryon, but to the very image of the Sacred Struggle. _A matter like this we would not keep silent over_.

"If he runs, we will turn east and join your brother," Jason Lannister said, standing and pointing to the map. "We'll smash the Volantenes aside, then what hope will Blackfyre have?"

"A fool's hope!" Baratheon said.

"The Volantenes could march around the lake if Blackfyre gets word to them somehow," Jon Arryn said.

"They'd run into Lashare's Dothraki pets," Lelouch said.

Gerold glanced at him. "The Volantenes are no friends to the Dothraki. Among the Free Cities, they alone offer these nomads death over the wreath."

"Then it must come to a battle at last," Baratheon said with a hawkish smile. "Only one question remains: Lashare's offer."

_Could Uncle be rescued_? Lelouch let himself think, _hope_, before his own voice quashed it. It had not worked when he'd tried it in Myr, when he might have claimed the element of surprise. The odds now were much worse.

There was no one he could send to negotiate with the khals either. Cici… no, it was different with the Tyroshi. They respected truce at least, and reputation. All the khals cared for was strength, and to them women had no strength.

Cici was not _dosh khaleen_.

"With one shake of the hand, we will have won," Lord Arryn said. "Such a disparity in numbers would let us batter down both the Volantenes and Blackfyre even had they been able to join together. Split apart, Lashare would tip the scales so heavily in our favor."

The assessment was sound, if not as certain as Arryn made it sound. Blackfyre might still eke out victory if Aerys was struck down at any point. Who would be left to rule Westeros but a man close to the grave and two wailing women?

_Aerys cannot die_, Lelouch thought.

As a chief adversary to Blackfyre's band, it would be disastrous. Lelouch's efforts over the past fourteen months would be all for naught. Worse, he'd have made a terrible enemy of the king if Blackfyre triumphed, and his work in Essos undone in a twinkling.

"We'd be making peace with our enemy," Tywin said. "What will men think of us if we do?"

"After we win, whatever we tell them to think. Dead men, on the other hand, have no choice in how they're thought of," said Roger Reyne, the Red Lion of Castamere.

"More allies would not be amiss," Hoster added.

"Lashare claims he is no friend of Blackfyre's," Gerold said. "That he purposefully held back his strength and let him flounder."

"Do you believe there's truth to his words?" Stark asked, setting his cup of mead on the table.

"It makes some sense, but I am undecided," Gerold said.

Aerys sat silently throughout it all, contemplating. He was the very visage of the wise king—and them as his counsellors—the story painters loved to make grand portraits of. _Aerys will not die_.

Servants came with platters of food. Wine was had. The moon started sinking, and the lords still seemed split evenly on the question of Lashare.

"Tyrosh was our enemy not that long ago," Arryn said, steepling his hands in front of him. "They were only brought to heel recently. What makes Lashare any different?"

"My lords," Baratheon said, crossing his arms, "we've argued this to death and still have not come to agreement. Indecision is the death of armies."

"It is House Targaryen's throne to defend," Gerold said, eyes sweeping the room before coming to a rest on Aerys. "We may advise and counsel and argue, but the choice, in the end, must be a Targaryen's. Prince Aerys must decide."

"Aye, let the prince decide," Stark said.

_If the king doesn't lead, how can he expect his subordinates to follow? _

"I've heard my lords speak their piece," Aerys said. "All save one that is."

Lelouch stilled.

"I'm curious, Ser Lelouch," Aerys continued. "You've kept your peace for so long that it is most unlike you. I cannot recall a war council before tonight where you only spoke once all throughout, and only to provide information instead of opinion."

"_Think on your words to the prince wisely."_

"Lashare has my uncle, Prince Aerys," Lelouch said. "He has threatened to sell Adamm Velaryon into slavery if I speak against him."

Baratheon scowled. "Perhaps we spoke too soon, calling Maelys the Monstrous, as if he was singular in that regard."

"Do you advise the prince towards peace then?" Jon Arryn asked.

"Peace for your uncle's life," Edgar Yronwood added with an innocuous smile.

_Uncle Adamm's life… was it worth it, throwing away everything, even Aerys' cause? _Lelouch thought.

_Kiren's nails dug into his arm. "Swear it. Swear there will be no peace until this insult is answered in full."_

Lelouch stood and he felt every gaze on him keenly. "When I came before King Jaehearys at court and asked him to give me leave to make war on our enemies in the Stepstones, I made a vow. Some of you were there that day. To you, I ask, do you remember my words?"

There were some shaking heads, while others remained still.

"That a Blackfyre remains alive today is a reminder of that ignoble past," Lelouch said. "That a Blackfyre might still strike at the heart of Westeros unforgivable. I will right these wrongs. There will be no more _pretenders_."

_"May the Stranger deal with me ever so severely if I leave this work half-done," Lelouch vowed. "There will be no peace between me and those who wronged our family."_

"My lords, I remember my vows," Lelouch continued. "I remember that Liomond Lashare, an upjumped sellsword with dreams of grandeur, sided with an enemy of House Targaryen. That he _dared_ to defy the Iron Throne openly. I say to you now, if I remember all this, others surely will."

He turned to Roger Reyne. "After we win, men will think what they please and the minstrels will sing their songs. Would you have them sing of our victory, our won glories by steel striking steel? Or will they think of how Lashare won House Targaryen its throne?"

Lelouch pierced Jon Arryn with a look. "You say Tyrosh was our enemy not long ago. You ask what makes Lashare any different. I say he _is_ different. Tyrosh may be made of merchants and coin counters, but even they know the worth of their word as bond. When Tyrosh made common cause with us, it was on _our terms _after a battle _we'd won_. Who is this sellsword that we now let him _dictate _terms to us, and yet has never had the courage to face us in battle?"

He set his sights on Hoster Tully. "More allies would be welcome, you say. At least the Tyroshi had the decency to die first. What does a sellsword know of loyalty or sacrifice or hard choice? What does he know of honor? All he has ever done is in service to himself." Lelouch snatched up his cup and downed the mead in it—then the cup smashed itself against the floor. "Better I take my life now than be known to have sided with that curr."

At last he looked to Lord Yronwood, whose son he'd humiliated not so long ago. "Peace for my uncle's life? I would not give Lashare the satisfaction if he offered me my uncle's life a hundred times over."

"I _spit _on Lashare's honor!" Lelouch snarled, more suited to an animal's maw than a lord who'd brokered peace once upon a time. "I spit on his peace!"

"Fire and blood!" Aerys shouted, jumping to his feet. "Fire and blood to our enemies!"

"Fire and blood! Fire and blood!"

"Ours if the fury!" boomed Lord Baratheon between the chanting lords, thumping fist on chest in that way all Baratheons did—in open defiance of the gods themselves.

More swords and axes and hammers were raised with every chant of "Death! Death to the Young Dragon's enemies!"

Lelouch howled, and all the hounds of war howled with him.


	26. Interlude - Bane of Nine

**Chapter 26: Interlude - The Bane of Nine**

Liomond smiled sweetly at Blackfyre. "My old friend, how are you? We haven't seen each other for far too long!"

The Westerosi and that impudent Velaryon boy had responded less than ideally to his generous offer. The boy had wanted to bargain so desperately back in Myr, and it was no secret he knowingly allowed the Myrish-in-Exile to adopt the Pentoshi way of things, so his own feelings agaisnt slavery could not be so strong.

Had he misread the boy?

As soon as Liomond saw the sunsetlanders trying to gain a march on him, he'd moved his army towards Blackfyre's, and the khal would receive his last gift before marching away not long after. One did not make threats one would not follow through on after all.

"Old friends are we?" Blackfyre asked, tilting his head at an angle to show Liomond the face of his stillborn twin. It was a gesture whose meaning Liomond had long deciphered: "I see through your lies."

Liomond's smile grew wider. "We swore oaths to each other, did we not, on that place beneath that tree? We are not nine any longer I admit, but the oaths still hold true."

"For some they do," Maelys said. "You've deigned to drag yourself out of Myr at last. What is it you want, Lashare?"

"The same as you, Maelys," Liomond said. "I want my prize."

"You've won your prize, nestled in its bosom all these months while I _gutted _the Westerosi," Blackfyre said. "Or do you claim to have been elsewhere when I fought at Naqes and Aegador's Scorch and the two score skirmishes between there and here? Where were you when our fleets were smashed at Pryr and Bloodstone and Lys?"

"Did you not receive my many messengers?" Liomond asked. "I was keeping your flank safe from Khal Yaggo's ten thousand screamers, at great personal cost to Myr and her tributaries. Or would you have preferred I left the Dothraki be, free to pillage and burn the Disputed Lands from the northeast while you had the Westerosi to the south and west doing the very same thing?"

Blackfyre narrowed his eyes. "Do not take me for a fool, Lashare. You dallied in treating with the khal. What ought to have been the work of a month at most turned into months of meandering."

Liomond shrugged. "Myr was devastated after the Night of the Myrmidons, what with that Velaryon boy and the treacherous magisters stealing away at night with their worldly riches. It was not easy finding enough trinkets and slaves to gift the Dothraki after such losses. Besides, I'm here now, am I not?"

"So you are," Blackfyre said. "Yet, like you said, you've been given your prize already. Are you ready at last to commit you and yours to this war?"

"I was not given anything," Liomond said. "I took Myr by my own accord. If you want my spears, I shall need another prize."

Blackfyre's body stiffened, then he snarled. "I ought to gift your treacherous tongue my sword!"

"And sully your beautiful Valyrian blade the day before battle is had?" Lashare tilted his head. "The Westerosi have occupied the Gateway, and I saw them send a small force to harry your new friends from the east. You _need _me Maelys, because you have no one else to face the forty-five thousand men screaming for your heads."

"Your ten thousand spears are even less than my own force, yet you think it'll win me this war, oh Lord of Battles?"

"Oh no, I don't think so highly of my men," Liomond said. "But it will give you a fighting chance. Without them, they'll drown you in bodies and still come out the victor. March away, and they'll turn around and smash the Volantenes. This is it, Maelys. This is _the_ _fight_."

"_What_," Blackfyre asked, "do you want then?"

"What does any sellsword want before selling their sword?" Liomond asked. "A good price, punctual pay, and a prize for victory."

Despite the baseless rumors peddled by those who hadn't met the man, Blackfyre was not some dumb brute. He couldn't be if he'd managed to make himself captain of _the_ Golden Company after slaying their previous one, his handsome kin too. "The Disputed Lands," Blackfyre said.

"You'll certainly have no use for some faraway farms once you cross the narrow sea," Liomond said. "Why not hand it over to me? Would you rather the coin counters take it?" It always struck Liomond odd how Blackfyre could disdain the merchants so thoroughly, yet still happily take their gold.

"You'll obey my orders," Blackfyre said, putting steel into his voice. "There will be no retreat from this battle."

"I'll do what needs to be done _to win_. I always have," Liomond said, extending his hand. "Do we have an accord?"

"The hardest choices… are they any less necessary?" Blackfyre said, more to himself than Liomond it seemed—then he seized the outstretched hand. "We have an accord."

Liomond nodded. "Let's go kill us some sunsetlanders."

Together, their armies went east where the host of Westeros offered battle. The land was relatively flat, grassy, and the soil under their marching feet had baked hard in the summer sun. It was good terrain for a thundering cavalry charge or the slow, methodical crush of a phalanx, and Blackfyre had the best of both in all Essos.

On their left flank, closest to the lake in the north, was Fossoway leading his Knightfall Company alongside knights and squires decked in gold. Tom the Butcher's Cleavers provided them support against the stags, wolves, and trouts.

_The left_, Liomond mused, _that's where Maelys has bet this victory on. _

Maelys took the center, of course, preparing to trample the flowers and falcons. Lashare himself was sandwiched between the Golden Company's phalanxes and their elephants ambling near the Adere River, where seahorses lied in wait. As if the gods themselves had ordained this fight, Lashare's ten thousand and the goldenheart bows would hunt Velaryon's host of lions and red dragons.

It was prudent of Blackfyre to put his men here, furthest away from the lake and Myr. If they broke, there would be no safe ships to board or an easy place to run to. They would fight, or they would die.

The principal commanders from both hosts rode forward for parley, one of the few customs the western barbarians had adopted from Essos. Liomond spotted Velaryon and the broad-shouldered Hightower from two days prior, now joined by a muscled beast of a man, a lithe, olive-skinned Rhoynar, and a boy with a too large crown.

From there side came the Band of Nine… the five that were left, that is.

"This need not be resolved at the cost of more lives, Blackfyre," Ser Hightower said. "Your life is forfeit, but your men may yet march away."

"This need not be resolved at the cost of more lives, Hightower," Blackfyre said. "I see the boy prince is among you, no longer _cowering _behind brave men. Let him and I settle this as the gods intended: trial by combat!"

The boy prince glared, opened his mouth—then quieted as Velaryon placed a hand on his shoulder and murmured something.

"The gods intended for you to die," the muscled man said, "and before this day is done, we will see to it, _you slaving fucks_."

Liomond grinned. "The fault of that was not mine. I offered a choice, and you chose… poorly."

"We will have to see about that," Velaryon said. "I killed three of your nine and turned another to our cause. I will not lie: it will be my pleasure finishing the rest of you off."

Blackfyre's face twisted into something dark, savage and monstruous to behold. It was the look of a man who'd destroy the world for his cause. "Lelouch Velaryon, you have been a thorn at my side since the beginning. Now, I will be rid of you at last."

"We have the numbers," the Rhoynar said. "Surrender Blackfyre, your cause is hopeless."

"We have the better men," Xhobar replied. "What you see before you is no mismatched gathering of green boys, old men, and fools dressed in gleaming steel. Ours is an army."

Hightower scoffed. "Better men? Yet you have a kinslayer for a leader, and a most wretched knight as his chief lieutenant. Can you even be called _true_ men?"

"Battle is the true test, not playing at war in silly jousts and festivities," Fossoway said. "We won crushing victories at Naqes and at Aegador's Scorch, while your greatest victor is a boy of seven and ten?"

"Ser Lelouch Velaryon's age does not diminish his record," the muscled man said. "He is a true knight, leal in service and fierce in battle."

"We have spoken long enough," Maelys said, clutching the warmaul he preferred in battle, rather than his pretty little sword stashed back in the camp.

"I'll be looking for you in the battle, Lashare," Velaryon said, before he turned his horse around.

Liomond smirked, and rode away heedless.

_Now it begins._

"Your flank must advance first," Blackfyre said before they parted ways. "It will be a feint to bait them in, an invitation to overextend. With the river anchoring one side, they won't be able to bring the whole of their strength to bear on you."

"Then when they've pushed too far forward, you'll hammer them with Fossoway's cavalry and yours," Liomond said, nodding. "Xhobar's goldenhearts will collect a bloody toll this day."

It was a sound plan, and he could not entirely bring himself to fault Blackfyre for using his men as bait.

_He doesn't trust me, just my self-interest_, Liomond thought. _But my men will weather this better than his will, with our flank secured. He has given Fossoway the harder task: piercing through such deep ranks of men._

"Sound the advance," Liomond ordered as he reached his men.

Ba-Rooomm Ba-ROOOMM, blared the trumpeters, and his Battleborne and their Jolly Fellows marched ahead of the other slower flanks.

They were met by the marching cadence of Velaryon's men-at-arms.

At five hundred yards, the first of those yard long shafts the Summer Islanders launched began to fall on Velaryon's men. Fired from a goldenheart bow, each could skewer even plated knights, and tightly packed men could be killed in twos and threes.

A steady drumbeat sounded _bam-BAM bam-BAM babaBAM_.

Liomond looked to the river, where the seahorse ships were surging forward, the lead galley flying a flag black as night.

Another volley of knight's bane shafts loosed—then deep, bloody gashes appeared all over his own ranks, too large to have been caused by any warbow.

_Ballistas_, Liomond thought grimly. The shots were coming from the ships. Marching faster would leave his men the ones overextended, and loosening formations before the lines met seemed even more disastrous with that pack of lions preparing to charge.

Liomond needed as many of his own men _living_ to continue having leverage over Blackfyre.

He grabbed a nearby rider. "Tell Xhobar to target their ships!"

"Yes, Captain!"

Liomond began counting in his head as he surveyed the rest of the field. With luck and a swift stallion, his message would reach Xhobar before they fire two more volleys. Maelys' phalanxes were advancing at a slower pace than he expected, and the elephants were held in reserve still.

He cursed. _Am I the only one who wants to win this battle_? The Golden Company often sent those beasts of war in first to disrupt their enemies, and its riders were some of Blackfyre's most fanatical followers.

The next rain of ballista bolts hit his men, and the only consolation Liomond had was that the sunsetlanders were faring no better under a rain of goldenheart arrows.

Unlike him, the sunsetlanders had opted to accelerate their advance in response.

_Ninety_, he counted, and glanced at the ships. Wooden streaks of death put holes into the ships now, courtesy of the Summerswans, proving again why the pirates feared to dwell too long in the summer sea.

Liomond unsheathed his sword. _At least I don't have to worry about their ships anymore_.

A cry of "Lock shields! Lock shields! Brace!" burst from his lieutenants without prompting.

—lances killed his men in droves while their spears took their own toll on the knights moving too fast to stop themselves now.

Da-DAAA da-DAAA da-DA da-DA da-DAAAAAAA, sounded Blackfyre's trumpets, finally committing to a charge.

_We just need to hold_, Liomond thought, watching the lions get bogged down at last, easy prey for his hyenas and—

His men began screaming. The men _behind _him began screaming.

Liomond glanced and his heart fell.

Some of Blackfyre's elephantry unit had taken the most direct path to the sunsetlanders—through his men! The fools!

It was enough to throw his own formation into chaos even as the elephants began trampling the lead elements Velaryon had sent. Ranks of sellswords and sworn swords mingled in the din of battle.

The other elephants started running into the center of the enemy formation, straight at where Liomond knew the boy prince would be.

It would be the perfect time to attack—but where were Blackfyre's phalanxes? Where were Fossoway's heavy horse?

Liomond looked to the north, behind him… and found himself alone.

Blackfyre had withdrawn further back, executing a maneuver only his Golden Company could have managed so close to battle. Blackfyre left him to _die_.

Liomond spat at the dirt and spied a man in red running up to him. With a deft flick of his sword, he left the man in a darker strain of red. The melee was growing fiercer and fiercer as more of Velaryon's men poured in, danced with his own men to the song of steel striking steel.

"Lashare!"

Liomond turned, eyeing the Velaryon boy.

Lelouch Velaryon pointed his spear at him like a viper would. "Now it ends."

**-ZeroRequiem-**

Ba-Rooomm Ba-ROOOMM, blared the trumpeters, and Lashare's men marched ahead of the other slower flanks.

"Forward!" Lelouch ordered, and the marching cadence of the crownlanders and westerlanders filled Tywin's ears.

At five hundred yards, lengthened shafts struck their men—and Tywin watched knights in full plate dropping like common men.

_Those blasted bows need to be silenced,_ Tywin thought atop his destrier. "If we let them keep raining death on our foot, it will send the men into disarray!"

"We cannot let that happen. Ser Lelouch's orders were clear," Uncle Jason said, slamming the visor of his greathelm shut and looking the very ideal of knighthood in armor gleaming, gilded, and red. "We break their ranks and find every opportunity to do so.".

_Uncle is everything Father isn't_.

Uncle tugged at the reins of his mount, turning to face the contingent of heavy horse. "Knights with me! With me!" he cried, and they hugged the river's curves, swiftly overtaking the foot's advance. Then, Uncle led them into the beginnings of a thunderous, _glorious _charge.

Lashare's host looked overextended to Tywin, having pushed far too forward relative to the golden phalanxes of Blackfyre's center and left flank. _With this one blow, we will end this upjumped sellsword at long last._

Their men lined up, lances raised, and their horses burst forward with explosive, violent speed. Neck to neck they rode, an inevitable, insurmountable wall of steel that would sweep aside anything in its way. Neck to neck they rode, packed so tightly Tywin couldn't turn.

Tywin blinked, and the knights to either side of him were snatched from their horses by the long fletched shafts of the Stranger.

_Mother grant me mercy. Guide their shafts from my body until I have felled my enemies_.

Their mounts kept moving, heedless, moving with the herd on instinct. Each second that passed, more and more armored men were felled by those infernal arrows Blackfyre had found.

_Warrior grant me courage. Give my sword arm strength to fell my enemies._

At fifty yards their lances were lowered, aimed straight at the mass of throats crying, "Lock shields! Lock shields! Brace!"

_Stranger grant me absolution. Give my enemies— _

"DEATH!" Tywin screamed, driving his lance into the sellsword in front of him. His horse kept moving, its weight and the weight of all those behind it driving them deeper, deeper, deeper—

Da-DAAA da-DAAA da-DA da-DA da-DAAAAAAA, sounded some trumpets.

Tywin had a moment to glance as the lumbering elephants become thundering beasts, before he had to drop his shattered lance. He leaned away, dodging a spear thrust before bloodying his gilded gauntlet against the man's nose. Tywin drew his hand back—now splattered crimson on gold, like the Lion of Lannister he was—unsheathing his longsword. The sellsword that _dared_ strike at him had collapsed into the dirt where he belonged, the holes in his face from the spikes of Tywin's gauntlet.

Uncle Jason was further ahead, biting deeper than a ballista bolt, an army unto himself with the pile of bodies he left in his wake. Roger and Reynard Reyne were between Tywin and his uncle, a pair of slicing, thrusting steel whirlwinds—

Something bounced into the back of his metal skirt—not a clean hit, though it would bruise in the night. That was all the chance the man got before Tywin swung his sword around to parry the next hit he'd sensed. This man was an officer of some sort, judging by stripes on his armor and the scar running down his left cheek.

Steel rang, steel sang, and sparks came to life as he exchanged hits with the man once, twice, thrice. On the fourth clash, their blades locked, and Tywin pressed his thighs against his horse, ordering it feets into the air and _kick_.

The officer was taken by surprise, helmet bashed in by hoof.

There was screaming further ahead.

_The world's gone mad,_ Tywin thought, watching the elephants tear into Lashare's own ranks. The neat ranks of war had devolved into a furious free-for-all more suited to a tourney. Further afield, the same beasts were being driven into their center, sending rows of men into flight or frenzy.

But there were no men to follow through.

_Has Blackfyre lost his nerve?_ Tywin thought from atop his destrier as he slammed his sword down over and over, sending chips of oak scattering before his blade found purchase in the man's shoulder. A few feet away a squire at Casterly Rock hesitated before dealing the death blow. Hesitation was a surer death than any broken sword.

Uncle Jason's advance was being bogged down, favoring his offhand...

_Injured!_ Tywin urged his horse further forwards, slashing, stabbing, smashing with his kite shield, kicking out with the spiked tip of his sabaton. His line of sight was blocked for a minute, maybe two, as the fighting grew fiercer, the heavy press of bodies closing in.

For a fleeting moment, the Warrior and Stranger rewarded his offering of courageous acts and cowardly enemies. Tywin grasped sight of his uncle, crying havoc, determined to end this as he ran at Lashare.

"Here me roar!" Tywin roared, parrying one thrust, and catching another's axe with his vambrace. He drove his greathelm into the face in front of him, sending it reeling and red all over. The axeman swung again, causing his grip on his sword to slip. Tywin reached for another weapon—his morningstar, as he bashed the axeman's head with his shield. "Lannister! LANNISTER!"

He caught a glimpse of Uncle again—

"NO!" Tywin screamed, willing this damned destrier forward, faster, but it seemed a new man stepped in his way before the dumb beast could pick up any speed.

Lelouch was engaged with Lashare now with his spear, and he was losing too, badly. His friend was good with a spear, but better with a bow, and best on a ship. The hours of practice he'd spent could not make up for a lifetime's experience.

Da-DAAA da-DAAA da-DA da-DA da-DAAAAAAA.

Further afield, the golden phalanxes grinded forward and cavalry began to smash into each other on the other end.

He turned and—found himself looking up into the cloudless blue sky.

Tywin rolled, avoiding the elephant foot smashing down where his head was. Arrows, bolts, and javelins flew out of the beast's back like a giant porcupine shooting its quills out. Tywin gripped his weapon, and found his only weapon his spiked gauntlet and every part of his armored body. His horse had scampered away after throwing him off, scared witless by the elephant.

He made to throw himself to the side and—found himself hugging dirt, breathless, _screaming _bloody murder.

Tywin tried to push himself up, and couldn't. _My foot!_ Tywin screamed, as the elephant walked away heedless of what it'd done to him. His throw had been a span off, and the grey giant's foot had stepped on his ankle, pulverizing it into a paste of blood, bone, and gore.

A man with yellowing teeth and a crooked nose loomed over him, thinking, pondering, if he was worth anything alive. _Hesitating _when hesitation was a surer death than any broken sword.

"Rans—" the man gurgled, his tongue turning into steel, spitting out blood. He fell to the side and Tywin looked up at the Great Bore of a boar.

"My lord!" Marthew Crakehall said, quickly eyeing his foot and grimacing. He sheathed his weapon, dropping low and lifting Tywin across his shoulders the way people in a fire did to their friends. One hand secured Tywin's body, and the other reached for a weapon. "Grip my armor tight. I will not see you fall today!"

The Great Boar really wasn't so bad. He'd sent him with the vanguard for nagging about his unwed sister, but Tywin could no longer find it in himself to blame the man. The Weasel Lord had latched his lecherous eyes on his sister after all.

As Marthew Crakehall fought and killed and killed for his sake, Tywin was helpless to watch. Helpless as Lelouch died a slow death to Lashare. Helpless as Aerys suffered the brunt of Blackfyre's assault.

Helpless like his father.

**-ZeroRequiem-**

Not for the first time that day, the Bastard of Driftmark cursed his trueborn cousin.

_Lelouch has a death wish_, Donnall grumbled as he sliced through two men in quick succession, easy as carving a cake. His steel plate armor was enameled a deep Velaryon aquamarine with highlights of silver, and its rondels were sand-orange shells like the color of his mother's house. It was armor fit for a lord, and Lelouch had given it to him before the campaign began anew.

How he'd found time to have it commissioned without Donnall knowing was frankly beyond him. He'd long ago accepted Lelouch had his secrets, that his mind ran at a different pace.

It was why he preferred the sword.

"_Take the armor, Donnall," Lelouch said, grinning._ "_You're of more use to me keeping my own hide alive than all the gold it took to buy it."_

How did Lelouch expect him to keep him alive if he kept charging into danger, headfirst and heedless?

Donnall scowled, and channelled his frustrations outwards, his sword flowing as an extension of his own arm. A man with a pig nose stood in his way, blocking his first two strikes where many of his friends failed. Donnall feinted, then spun around the hog, butchering him through the back with a precise slice.

"Driftmark!" Donnall howled. "SEAFYRE!"

_Faster_. Donnall barrelled forward, trusting his armor to protect him. It had to, for the steel weighed on him like debt and duty both.

Donnall caught a glimpse of Lelouch, struggling to keep Lashare away with his spear. Lelouch was clever, and so he thought he could think his way out of any problem. _But sometimes_, Donnall thought, weaving through the field like a tailor's needle, _skill and raw physicality trumped any clever feints._

Give his cousin time, and he'd weave a tapestry of tricks, plots, and schemes that could bring down anything. Neither the Free Cities nor kings in all the names Essos called them could stand up to Lelouch.

But this battle, they had no time. There were no clever formations at play here, no wildfire or storms to call on. It was the simple, _raw _butchery of two sides smashing into each other with all the grace of Rolan Redmoore—who'd taken a spear between his eyes some twenty feet back.

Battles like this simplified a great many things, and Lelouch didn't do simple. It was anathema to his cousin to solve things in two steps when twenty would do just as well.

_I should have kept a better eye on him_, Donnall thought. When he'd asked what the plan of attack was after the war council, Lelouch had barked out but one word: _Attack_, before sending out a messenger and a small party of armed men, lying in wait to intercept Lashare's.

That should have been warning plenty.

_I will not fall_. Donnall danced around his enemy, landing a dozen nicks and cuts before choking the man with steel. _Nor falter_. He barrelled forward through the last of Lashare's guards, debt and duty woven around him like the Smith's blessing. _Nor fail. _His sword lashed out, catching Lashare's on its downward arc.

"Donnall," Lelouch said, seeming surprised.

"You should have known better," Donnall chided as he pushed Lashare and his horse back, stepping between his cousin's prone form and the sellsword. "You're the talker between us, but I swing the sword."

Lelouch got up to his feet, grasping for his spear with his right hand and settling into a one-handed phalanx stance. "Together?"

"Just like against Father," Donnall said.

Lashare growled. "Who is this whelp supposed to be?"

"I am my cousin's sword," Donnall recited. "His enemies are my enemies, and his friends my friends."

"You've got a mouth on you," Lashare spat. "I'll enjoy carving you a red smile."

"Save your words for the Stranger." Donnall shifted his weight, keeping both legs springy and his eyes on the sword and stance Lashare used.

_Pay attention to weapons, not words, _his father's voice echoed in his skull.

"Fight to win," Lelouch muttered.

"I'm no Corwyn."

Then the dance of three began.

Donnall grasped his greatsword, meeting the murderous weight behind Lashare's charge. Steel kissed steel in a shower of sparks, and Donnall pressed on, striking and stepping. Lelouch circled to the right, poking, prodding, but never piercing Lashare's guard.

Lashare shoved Lelouch's spear away with his shield, urging his horse back one hoof at a time so that he was never in threat of being between the two of them.

_Mind your footwork_.

Lashare struck against Lelouch, moving fast and hitting fierce, bringing his sword down once, twice, thrice, but Lelouch's guard held. Donnall had never been as proud of his cousin as when he beautifully blocked the harsh jab to his chest, transitioning from spear to quarterstaff style without blinking, though it was torn from his grip after the sixth blow.

At least Lelouch had learned one of their lessons well: _Always have a knife._

Donnall seized the moment to step into his guard. Backhand, sideslash, parry, overhead the swings came quick and quicker still.

He pressed and pressed and pressed, and took Lashare's sword hand as a weregild for his father.

The man screamed, bringing his shield around to block his sword, but he took his eyes off Lelouch for too long. His cousin jumped on Lashare's back, and _stabbed_ at the side of his throat before pulling it across.

A red smirk smiled on Lashare's neck, and his horse carried him away, headless.

Lelouch pushed the body off.

"Are you injured?" Donnall asked, releasing a breath he hadn't known he'd kept.

"I'll live," Lelouch said, nursing his bleeding hand. It wasn't so long ago that he'd been stabbed there. "Thanks to you."

"That was stupid of you, taking him own on your own. Don't do that again," Donnall said.

Lelouch had the decency to flush.

"Is it over?" Donnall asked.

Lelouch glanced at the field. "Not yet. We must ride to Aerys' aid before the Golden Company overwhelms him, just as Lord Baratheon will come from the north. There will be no more pretenders that can challenge House Targaryen after this."

_Shouldn't be too difficult_, Donnall thought. The worst of the fighting had passed and Lashare's foot was starting to scatter, outnumbered as they were and with the goldenheart bows no longer providing support while they duelled with the Driftmark fleet. "I'll gather the men."

"Find Tywin, if you can, or my brother," Lelouch said. "I need the cavalry to give chase to those archers at last, lest they think to nuisance us on our advance."

There were lions, lions everywhere, but each and every one the wrong shade. "Ser Jason is dead," Roger Reyne told him grimly, "and I know not where Lord Tywin or his brothers are."

"You'll have to do then, my lord," Donnall said. "Gather as many horses as you can, if you would. Lord Lelouch bids you to ride forth and put an end to the Summerswans."

"It will be done, but what of Prince Aerys?"

"My cousin intends to deal with the matter himself, but cannot advance if those ungodly arrows might bite into his formations," Donnall said. What a mess they'd make of those pretty marching lines Lelouch liked.

"Surely he will need cavalry too to reach them in time and turn the flank?" Reyne asked. "I will leave him a detachment of my finest horse under my brother's command."

"I'm certain he'd appreciate that," Donnall said, not certain at all, but had wasted enough time on the man. _Lelouch will find a use for them in any case_.

When he returned to his cousin, Lelouch was sharing words with Corwyn.

"Already you want me to loot dead men walking?" Corwyn asked. "The battle is not over."

"It isn't," Lelouch said. "Take no risk you needn't, but after the battle I'll have use for them yet. Secure as many as you can safely and ride swiftly."

"Tides take you," Corwyn said.

"Where it flows," Lelouch replied. He turned to Donnall.

"The men are ready," Donnall said. "Lord Roger Reyne bid me to take Ser Reynard, his brother."

"Then we must ride to our prince and guard him from our enemies," Lelouch said. "Men of Driftmark, men of the west, men of Westeros, FORWARD!"

As they advanced, aiming to hit the softer flank of the golden phalanxes, Lelouch said, "You'll make a Kingsguard yet after Aerys hears of your deeds."

_You are the only king I'll ever guard_, though he gave the treasonous thoughts no voice in the light of day.

**-ZeroRequiem-**

Da-DAAA da-DAAA da-DA da-DA da-DAAAAAAA, sounded the trumpets, sending Maelys' elephantry into his enemies.

Into _all _his enemies.

Who was Liomond Lashare, the Lord of Battles, to him? Who was this upjumped sellsword to think he could play Maelys Blackfyre the fool twice over? A rider from Velaryon had reached him mere hours before Lashare arrived, speaking of treacheries to the both of them.

_Vows are sacred made_, his stillborn brother, his better half, whispered.

Vows were not _unconditional_. Oaths did not hold for oathbreakers.

_The Golden Company has never broken a contract. We have kept to the word, if not the spirit, of our agreements_.

Being born with two faces did not afford Maelys the luxury of self-deception. His word would not be the last thing he broke if he was to win this war. The hardest choices were not always evil or complicated, but _necessary_ despite sentiment or morality or fear in all its forms. Yet, did these things make action any less necessary?

_Though in this instance, _Maelys thought as Velaryon and Lashare engaged in a violent orgy, just as the boy had promised. _Necessity was both evil and complicated_.

Oath breaking, duplicity, _consorting with the enemy_.

Maelys sighed. _War used to be so much simpler_. _Kill the other guy before they kill you_.

This was his struggle. Shedding weakness, seeing if he was a worthy successor to the Blackfyre name.

"Do I march around them or do I march through them?" Maelys asked himself.

The elephantry had done their jobs well, disrupting the flanks of the Targaryen host and ensuring Lashare and Velaryon were both bloodied by it. It gave Maelys choices at last, no longer corralled into action by the clever whims of a seahorse.

Maelys could march around them while they reformed, and any cavalry they sent to delay him would be butchered like they always were. His Golden Company was too fast and their hosts too slow that this disruption could see him across the Gateway if he hugged the northern lakeshore. With the Volantenes, he'd stand a far better chance in winning the next battle.

_But will it win you the war?_

The Volantenes might respect him as a commander, but did they respect him as a king? Maelys was feared for his prowess in battle, not loved for his benevolent rule. Volantis saw him as a tool to curb the Sacred Struggle, but he doubted their meagre fleet would be risked to see him seated on the Iron Throne.

"Naqes," he said softly. "We should have ended it then and there." That the gods saw fit to give him another chance was his test, his final struggle. Hesitation was a surer death than any broken sword.

Naqes had been a mistake, and Maelys Blackfyre, First of His Name, would correct that mistake with Aerys Targaryen's skull before the sun set.

"Sound the trumpets," Maelys ordered. "Advance on all fronts. This ends today."

Da-DAAA da-DAAA da-DA da-DA da-DAAAAAAA, sounded the trumpets, sending Maelys' men into his enemies.

The fields made for a pleasant walk with the grass and baked soil beneath them. In such conditions, he might have marched his men across the narrow sea, if only the Arm of Dorne had not been smashed by the Hammer of the Waters. They marched with speed, for as the old generals of Valyria said: "Speed names the victors of war, and sluggishness the vanquished in battle."

"The Targaryen whelp is mine," Maelys said, hefting his weighty war maul, and his honor guard nodded.

"Beneath the gold, the bitter steel!"

"Blackfyre! Blackfyre! BLACKFYRE!"

In truth, he should have used the sword, but it always sat ill at ease in his hands, as if knowing it did not belong to him. As if knowing he'd killed Daemon for it.

Daemon's actions were treason, but being born with two faces did not afford Maelys the luxury of self-deception.

The golden phalanxes carved through their enemy, pushing, pushing, _pushing_. It was no contest of strength for their formation had not yet reformed. The Golden Company was just a scythe cutting away the chaff.

"Hold, damn you, hold!"

"The Young Dragon! The Young Dragon comes!"

"Men of Westeros, stand FIRM!"

"PRESS THE ADVANCE!" Maelys screamed, and the phalanx broke into a run, sacrificing the sanctity of their formation for _speed_. They crashed through the stiffening resistance in a hundred melees and duels.

"Show yourself, Targaryen!" Maelys said, smacking aside a soft reach knight who'd thought himself worthy. "Or are you a coward who hides while your men die around you?"

"I'm here, Blackfyre," Aerys Targaryen growled, every inch of him covered in armor.

Aerys darted forward, then back, flowing around Maelys the murderous' two-handed swings with a dancer's grace. He was nimble, sure-footed, and Aerys stepped inside his guard, swinging his longsword, but Maelys was already jumping back.

"You're skilled," Maelys said, smirking, "for a boy."

_But still a boy in the end,_ Maelys thought. Maelys' counterattack was perfect—backhand, overhead, sideslash—each strike with a fury to humble the Baratheons, each roar of steel louder than the Lannisters'. On the third, and last blow, the boy went stumbling backwards, nearly losing his sword and helm both.

"You are not a _Targaryen_!" Maelys snarled, crushing the man's head with a single stroke.

He spared his guards a glance, and found half of them, all six, dead in the span of a minute, injuring the younger falcon and taking with them the older and a score of stormlanders and valesmen—men who should've been tied up dealing with Fossoway. The left and right flanks were collapsing on his phalanxes, the maws of defeat closing in.

"Ser Meadows was a fine brother," Hightower said. "He did his duty."

Aerys, the _real_ Aerys, stood beside him, lithe like a Braavosi water dancer, and the looks of Old Valyria was strong in him.

_He is my dead cousin come again_, Maelys thought, as he signalled for his honor guard to make sure none disturbed them. _Does that make me Lelouch Velaryon's mirror darkly?_

"This is how you intend to fight me? Three blades to my one?" Maelys asked. "There is no _honor_ in this."

"You talk much about honor," Aerys said, "for a monster."

"Aye, a monster," Maelys said, "and monsters eat little children."

"That's not what the minstrels will sing of when you're dead," Hightower said. "Ser Mooton, with me."

"Aye!"

Hightower's strikes were the precise, methodical strokes of a veteran, but there was a spark of artistry to his work, in the way he flourished his sword or struck from unexpected angles. Defense became attack, attack became defense—his sword moved with fluid purpose.

In comparison, Mooton was a disappointment. A fine enough warrior, but was there any greater curse than being just good in the era of great men?

"For Blackfyre!" screamed the rest of his honor guard, catching up at last after being separated in the din of battle. They rushed at Mooton and Hightower suddenly, forcing the men away from the boy prince.

Maelys saw his chance and he did not hesitate.

Aerys proved just as surefooted as his sacrificial kingsguard had been, dancing with grace and refusing to be pinned down so that Maelys could bring his greater strength against him. Six times they locked swords, only for the boy to slip away, while Maelys' guards dropped one by one against the now lone Hightower.

Maelys stepped forward with his right foot, giving the boy a clear opening—and pivoted, ignoring the boy's weak stab to land a blow he could not run from.

Aerys jumped back, his sword clattering to the ground.

Maelys grasped his side, his hand coming away blood red, before he settled on a two handed stance. He stepped forward, raising his sword high—then turned, to stop a blade from cleaving off both his heads.

"Ser Barristan!" Aerys said.

Maelys should have known, because hadn't the gods always sent someone to save the Targaryens time and again from their own inadequacy?

"You will not harm the prince!" Barristan said boldly.

Being born with two faces did not afford Maelys the luxury of self-deception. This Barristan was dangerous, no soft knight like the reachman had been. This was a stormlander, fierce and proud and _born_ to kill the _monsters _lurking in dark places.

But Maelys fought regardless. Because Daemon's actions were treason, but so were his. Daemon was his king, and he killed him for it.

When the last blow was struck, Maelys rested at last, knowing everything he had built was at an end.

So ended the last of the male Blackfyre line—obscured by the pages of history as a monster without morals or reason, just an ugly _thing _that lurked in dark places and under beds, lying in wait to seize children and ruin maidens.


	27. Mirrored Darkly

**Chapter 27: Interlude - Mirrored Darkly**

_War_, Aerys thought bitterly, _war was the ruin of stories_.

Bittersteel's work was wholly unmade.

"Two in five dead… that puts us on even numbers with the Volantene vanguard," Lelouch said as they walked through the desolate Golden Company's camp. Put all the worldly riches they'd found in a cave and it'd be a den fit for the dragons of song.

"We've lost many fine men besides," Aerys said. "Of the Kingsguard that marched with me, three of five are dead." Ser Redfort had taken a blow meant for Aerys at Guardian Isle. Ser Meadows donned his armor, and Blackfyre murdered him for it. Ser Mooton fought back-to-back with Ser Gerold, taking down two men before a mace bloodied his face.

All fine men, fine _knights_, now dead. They'd died for him.

_Am I worthy? _Aerys thought. What had he done to win his throne? Lelouch had led them to countless victories against all odds, despite what whispers older lords shared of him. Tywin had lost a leg and an uncle. Steffon's bannermen had been decimated over and over at Naqes, at the Gateway and _still _they kept faith with him.

_Not even a scar to show for it. _Aerys thought, staring at his reflection in the gleaming golden buckler resting in the dirt besides a now hollow tent.

"Aye, many of our commanders lost their lives in that butchery," Lelouch said, sounding none too pleased. "Lords Jon Arryn, Jason Lannister, Moryn Tyrell, Edgar Yronwood, Stephas Tarth, Dylar Wendwater… I've lost track of all the other great lords who've lost kin and kith."

It spoke more to the sheer death toll the battle had left, for Lelouch's mind had a keener edge than Valyrian steel.

"The war is not over either," Aerys said. "Since the time of King Jaehaerys the First, House Targaryen has been Defender of the Faith. Maelys Blackfyre's death has not ended the Sacred Struggle."

Thirty thousand Volantenes were half a day away, ready to enforce the whip and collar with death.

"The Volantenes will have to be dealt with," Lelouch said, nodding. "Do you know what they're calling Ser Brynden now?"

"The Blackfish," Aerys said, "though beyond the Tully sigil, the reason eludes me."

"It's for his raids," Lelouch said. "He's fond of striking at night, even the blackest of nights. If not for his daring, I dare say the Volantenes might have arrived just in time to smash into our backs."

"He'll have to be rewarded for his faithful service," Aerys said, eyeing Lelouch.

"Perhaps with a white cloak?" Lelouch asked. "He's brave enough, a notable commander, and it will please the Tullys immensely."

Aerys considered it. "A possibility, but there are only three open spots, and many worthy knights besides."

As the knight who killed the monster, Barristan the Bold's place was all but secured, and it made the last two spots all the more contested.

Marthew Crakehall had saved Tywin's life. Rodrick Cassel and the newly raised Lord of Yronwood both played a part rescuing Aerys from encirclement at Guardian Isle. Oswell Whent had felled six men and Tomas Santagar, the Butcher. The Red Lion had silenced the great golden warbows of the Ebon Prince, while his brother Reynard had led the heavy horse that completed the encirclement of the Golden Company. Ser Tristifer of Tarth, the Bright Knight, was said to have challenged ten lieutenants, officers, and veterans and come out the victor each time. Lord Leyton Hightower had bested Derrick Fossoway, the Bad Apple.

The deeds of the sons of Westeros were beyond counting.

_Am I worthy? _he thought.

What had Aerys done? Nothing in truth, but sit and watch others die in his name. He'd not earned his spurs, not truly, nevermind the oversized crown resting over his brow.

"This way, Your Grace," Lelouch said, heading for a nondescript tent.

Why he'd chosen it over every other tent eluded him, but Aerys followed nonetheless. Lelouch held out the tent flap, bidding Aerys enter first.

Inside was the green-haired woman Lelouch was fond of, Cici.

"It took you long enough. I've been waiting here for nearly a day," Cici said. "Did it work?"

"Just so," Lelouch said, grimacing. "It was still a bloodbath."

_The message to Blackfyre_. "The worst sort of battle," Aerys said, not fully grasping what they spoke of, but grasping enough to understand. This war had killed the boy inside of him, but he dared not say it left a man in its wake. "This is the woman you're fond of taking to bed?"

"I don't sleep with her," Lelouch said, face already resigned.

"I don't hold it against a man what comforts they seek out in times of war," Aerys said. _Who am I to judge Lelouch Velaryon? Only a boy prince who once thought wars were songs. _"I take it there was a point to bringing me here?"

"This is the tent," Lelouch said, starting to rummage through the chest. "_This_ is his tent."

_He can't mean… _"But it's so sparse," Aerys blurted out. He'd seen knights with more luxuries, though Blackfyre's tent had plenty of good steel in it. The only visible embellishment was a portrait of a seated woman with pink and purple hair. Rohanne of Tyrosh's big blue eyes and high cheekbones were striking, even as a still picture.

"War needs more than blood to be waged," Lelouch said. "It sucks men dry of gold too, like riptides suck men beneath the waters. Be lax for a moment and you'll find it drowning you."

_I had seven kingdoms to pay for my war and Blackfyre had but himself_, Aerys thought. _Yet, he still almost won in the end_.

Lelouch returned to him, carrying in his arms a bundled cloth. "Your Grace," Lelouch said, kneeling before Aerys and presenting it like a newborn babe.

Aerys unwrapped one end of it and saw the ruby pommel, the gleaming black grip, the crossguard that ended in snarling dragonheads… his breath hitched. "Is this...?"

"It is," Lelouch said, unwrapping the rest of it.

The hand-and-a-half longsword had distinctive rippled patterns in its blade, the mark of steel folded into itself countless times. Aerys lifted it up, feeling light as air in his hand and swift as stormwinds. It was the sword of Aegon the Conqueror, the blade each king had wielded from the Conquest to its theft.

_Blackfyre_.

"All this time, he had it," Aerys said. "How did you know?"

"I suspected, I didn't know for sure," Lelouch said. "That's why I sent her."

"Aside from the message you mean," Cici said.

Lelouch shrugged. "A person can do more than one thing at a time."

"My father should wield this," Aerys said.

"You may present it to him if you wish. It _is _your blade now, after all," Lelouch said, "though I suspect he'd just give it back to you. That might not be so bad, now that I think about it. Bards and lords alike would love the imagery."

"I'm not worthy of it," Aerys said.

Lelouch stood, looked him dead in the eye for a long while, before saying, "Then _be_ worthy of it."

Aerys gripped it tightly. "I will," he vowed, more solemnly than when he'd spoken his oaths of knighthood.

**-ZeroRequiem-**

They returned to their camp with Aerys' prize while the rest of the Golden Company's possessions were stripped clean by the squires.

Lelouch's woman had brought with her the portrait, but quickly squirreled it away to Lelouch's tent when they passed by it. Outside the Velaryon tent were a pair of men-at-arms tending to a pile of unstrung white and golden bows.

Finally, they reached the royal pavilion, already filled with lords. A hush gradually descended on the tent as Aerys entered. Every eye locked onto the sword in his hand. _Blackfyre's magic is beyond doubt if the mere sight of it can silence an assembly of lords, _he thought wryly.

"We're just in time for the war council, I think," Lelouch said loudly, shaking the lords from their stupor.

He took up his spot at the end of the high table, in between Uncle Ormund and Ser Gerold, then laid Blackfyre on the table. "Ser Lelouch found my family's sword at long last," Aerys said.

"It would've been sooner, but the weather was just too lovely not to enjoy," Lelouch said.

"An auspicious sign, Your Grace," Ser Gerold said. "Blackfyre is returned to House Targaryen."

"The Young Dragon!" shouted one lord.

"Aerys! Aerys!" came a slow, methodical chant from all present. "Aerys!"

Lelouch joined in too, though Aerys could see the tinge of amusement in his eyes.

_They cheer for my name over a sword_, Aerys thought. _Did the sword win the war? Did the sword even mark the end of war? _He let it go on a while longer, then raised his hand to silence the crowd.

"It fills me with joy to see Blackfyre returned to us at last," Aerys said, "but the war is not over, my lords. Not until Volantis is brought to the table."

Some weariness settled back into the table. Many present had lost kin and kith to the campaign, and many more thought they ought to leave Essos to the Essosi with the Iron Throne secured. _To do so would be folly_, Aerys thought. In one of those rare times, Ser Gerold, Uncle Ormund and Lelouch had all agreed with little argument between them.

"Have we learned more of their numbers?" Aerys asked.

"Other than the thirty thousand in their vanguard, we now estimate they've anywhere upwards of fifty thousand sellswords and slave swords mustering," Uncle said. "Mayhaps even doubling that with Qohor and Norvos too busy with Braavos to menace them from the north."

A hundred and sixty thousand soldiers? That was the strength of four kingdoms.

"A protracted war would not be prudent," Aerys said, as they'd instructed him to the night prior. "My lords have been bled enough."

"Aye, Your Grace," Ser Gerold said, "but King Jaehaerys also committed us to Sacred Struggle. If we leave without signing a peace, Volantis will sweep through the Three Sisters and the Disputed Lands. Every city we've freed, every chain we've broken, it would all be for naught."

Pious lords from the Reach and the Vale murmured angrily at the thought, and a fair few from the other kingdoms too.

"Braavos cannot act either," Uncle said. "Not when they face four Free Cities at the moment."

It had been a reaction to their own successes, Lelouch had said, though Aerys did not grasp why the Essosi would care so deeply, but then make war on one of theirs over a victory won by Westeros.

"We do not wish to fight every army from here to the Black Walls of Volantis," Aerys said to the agreement of many voices, "but we cannot allow these slavers to undermine our victories so easily."

"They're copper counters, my prince," Lelouch said.

"To them, war is no different from business," Ser Gerold said.

"Show the Volantenes we will bloody them dearly for overreach, and they will come to the table to treat," Uncle said.

"One battle," Aerys said. "We must make it count. It must be decisively ours."

_And I must win my spurs._

**-ZeroRequiem-**

"Among the Free Cities," Prince Lewyn said as Aerys surveyed the field, "only Volantis refuses to pay the Dothraki any tribute."

"Then they have some honor to them," Aerys said, "though it does not wash away the taint of slavery from their hands."

Lewyn nodded. "The Dothraki are simple enough to best with sturdy foot, but they'll find our mailed knights a different breed altogether from the unarmored savages."

The Volantenes were struggling to advance as Lelouch's bowmen peppered them from a distance. Some of the Driftmark men had taken a liking to using the goldenheart or weirwood bows, though most did not yet have the strength to draw it in full. Still, it lightened Aerys's heart to see his enemies being on the receiving end of such fearsome warbows for once.

"You spent time in the Free Cities. Do you know anything about who leads the Volantenes?" Aerys asked, gesturing to the fluttering banners that made the crouching tigers look like stalking a prey.

"There has not been more than one tiger elected as Triarch since the Century of Blood, so their commander must be Yraedor Vaegyr," Lewyn said.

Aerys recalled the words of Grandmaester Pycelle, right before the campaign began. The freedmen of Volantis elected three Triarchs from their nobility, those who could prove unbroken descent from Old Valyria.

"The tigers being men of war I understand," Aerys said, "but I always wondered why they called those who advocate for trade elephants. They must have never seen one of the beasts," Aerys said, noting how the Volantene foot was packed tightly now, "for it strikes me an elephant is by far the fiercer weapon in battle."

"Not always," Lewyn said. "It is the work of many years to turn them into weapons of war like the Golden Company did. In Volantis, the beasts are gentler, and used to carry the rich and powerful."

"I imagine it makes for an impressive sight," Aerys said. _But not as impressive and fearsome as a thunderous charge of knights_.

Lewyn hummed. "You have the command, Your Grace."

With Blackfyre in hand, Aerys had been proclaimed the best choice to lead all the heavy horse of Westeros in what ought to be the last struggle in their sacred endeavor. Steffon led the knights on the opposite flank, but would not move until Aerys did.

He'd been on campaign for the better part of eight months, and had heard the tales straight from Lelouch himself who'd been fighting the war even longer. After witnessing commanders like Lelouch Velaryon and Maelys Blackfyre, this _battle _felt hollow to Aerys. Triarch Vaegyr was no idiot, but he was not of the same caliber.

"Let's put an end to this mockery," Aerys said, slamming the visor of his helm shut. He raised his family's sword high into the air for all the chivalry of Westeros to see, then brought it down in a vicious arc until it pointed forward.

Right into their enemy's exposed flank.

These were not the veterans of Maelys Blackfyre or the golden ranks of the Golden Company. These were self-interested sellswords and slaves pressed into a war by their masters. Oh, the odd Unsullied century would be among their enemy and those stood their ground well enough.

But the rest of them?

The rest of them had never been subject to a _true _charge, and not that jape the Dothraki did. They were a hammer that sunk deep behind enemy lines, deeper even than the fear they etched into the hearts of men. They were a hammer, and Aerys was the guiding hand that showed it where to smite.

The Essosi fled the field. Men cheered his name. Knights rode the poor sods down.

_Cleanup_, Aerys thought, finding himself without appetite to kill fleeing green boys.

When he returned to camp later, the Myrmen and Lyseni were nowhere in sight, and many riders sworn to Driftmark, Wendwater, and Hightower streamed out of the camp in ones and twos. The Ironborn too seemed to be on the move, dragging their longboats overland from the Adere River to the Lake of Myrth.

It took two nights and three days for the Volantenes to reorganize themselves for a parley, and the better part of two days to set up a pavilion with the necessary accommodations for a meeting between men of their rank.

It began with the bickering of titles Lelouch had warned him of, and Aerys could not bring himself to care much for what men called him. Those parts of the talk he tuned out.

"We do not wish to crush every Volantene man underfoot," said Uncle Ormund, finally beginning the talks of any import, "but if need be, we will. Our war is over, and it would be wise of Volantis not to further provoke us into extending our Sacred Struggle."

"We've a hundred thousand more men to call on. Our bodies will clog up your narrow sea," Vaegyr said. "Do you think your threats scare me?"

"You have not seen the full strength of Westeros yet," Uncle said, the steel in his voice as firm as any warhammer. "We have tens of thousands more men, should we deem it necessary to call on them. Maelys Blackfyre has tricked you, he never stood a chance."

"Perhaps you speak some truth," Vaegyr said. "Yet, Volantis will need assurances, certain concessions, before this peace can be stomached even by the elephants. We've heard such terrible rumors from our friends in your lands too… or would you prefer to fight this to the bitter end and for what? Some slaves you'll turn into your smallfolk and treat all the same?"

From there it really was just haggling. As Essosi were wont to do, _haggling_ was also measured in days and hours rather than minutes. Small wonder they had time for anything else with how much time they spent counting coppers rather than making gold.

Vaegyr would ask Lys restored to slavery, fully expecting them to reject it outright and barter him down to a promise that the Iron Throne would not annex any land in Essos. Sacred Struggle was put to an end, and slaves on slave master ships visiting Westerosi ports would not be seized and freed so long as they did not depart from the docks on foot. Perhaps most importantly, Volantis was allowed to take a sliver of the Disputed Lands on this side of the Adere River and the Gateway, and in exchange they would not interfere in the Stepstones, whatever it was Father planned for it.

Accord was reached, peace was had, and eternal friendship sworn that would last as long as it took the ink to dry.

Aerys and the royal party returned to the camp a second time to much louder cheering as they announced an official end to the war, but he did not spot Lelouch's dark hair or purple eyes in the crowd. He was not in the royal pavilion either, so he went to Lelouch's tent.

Aerys found his friend there, sombre and not quite sober.

"What's wrong?" Aerys asked.

"I'd thought Lashare had lost his nerve," Lelouch said, downing his cup. "I'd thought it'd been a bluff when my men reported no messenger forthcoming from Lashare, ordering my uncle be gifted to the khal."

"Is that what your riders have been up to?"

"And the Ironborn. All of them were looking for my uncle, but when Greyjoy overtook Lashare's small fleet on the lake, his men said—" His face twisted into something dark and ugly, something no true knight in the songs would wear.

Aerys winced as Lelouch's glass cup shattered into a thousand pieces against the floor. Hadn't Lelouch said to him once, "There are no perfect knights. All men err eventually."

"They killed him?" Aerys asked softly.

"Would that they had," Lelouch said, holding his head. "Lashare's orders were to give Uncle Adamm to the khal if they heard no word from him, and his army moved away from ours."

"Where are the Dothraki now?"

"Gone," Lelouch said bitterly, biting back his tears. "They have my uncle, and they are gone. I might as well have sold him into slavery."

Aerys didn't quite know what to say to that.

Instead, he sat down.

Instead, Aerys drank with his friend.

**-ZeroRequiem-**

Zoutos heard a gentle rapping on the door of his cabin. Rising to his feet, and with many years of learning to dance with the swaying sea, he managed to reach the door and lifted the latch without trouble. Outside stood the little Lysene boy of Lelouch's.

"Varys, was it?" Zoutos asked.

"Yes, magister," Varys said in a passable Myrish dialect, eyeing the empty walkways outside. "I'm sorry to disturb you so late at night. May I come in?"

"You're not here to poison me, are you?" Zoutos asked half in jest, even as he stood aside.

The Lyseni were a people skilled in that craft, though they usually sent courtesans rather than eunuchs. Far easier to beguile the senses of a man when you stuck a pair of tits in front of him. It's how they'd gotten to his son, a service bought by an elephant.

"Not you," Varys said, and it did not set Zoutos at ease.

"If not me, then who?" Zoutos asked. It would be rather inconvenient, dying just before he landed near Myr where Cici had told him to meet her and her army. She'd predicted that the Westerosi would be dealing with the Volantenes after Blackfyre's loss, and had made her way to Myr to secure it on Lelouch's behalf.

An overall thoroughly competent woman and a most beneficial influence on his granddaughter, all told.

Varys withdrew a tiny rolled up parchment that could fit inside a bird's beak, and handed it to him. "See for yourself."

His brows furrowed as he read the message. He frowned as he recognized how the 'y's ended with a curved flourish and the 't's were crossed at an incline… and Zoutos knew fear. "This is…"

"Treason," Varys said, nodding. "I… I did not know who else to bring it too, with the _Darys_ and Mayor Cici away. They spoke much of what a trusted ally you were when I was with them."

"You were right to bring it to me," Zoutos said. "I must confirm this with Magister Glossos before we act though."

"I defer to you, magister," Varys said, though he did not bow when he used the honorific as slaves oft did.

_Here stands a free man_, Zoutos thought. If the boy was any indication of the average Lyseni, Lys would never again be shackled save through the subjugation of the entire city.

As for this talk of treason… Lelouch would not like it, Cici even less, and Glossos least of all.

Zoutos cursed to the many pantheons. How had the boy even gotten hold of such a message? He slept not well that night aboard the _Patron Far-eye_.

Images of a broken Lys came to him unbidden, and Zoutos wondered: _Would Myr be next?_ All it had taken was cutting off Lys from its hinterlands to send the slave city into a magister murdering frenzy. It would take an army and a fleet both to truly invest Myr, but it was not impossible anymore.

Maelys Blackfyre had shown them that. Lelouch Velaryon had shown them that.

Then there were the slave revolts to consider across the Disputed Lands. All it'd taken, according to Cici, was arming a handful of angry slaves to stir them against Tyrosh. Decades of slave training, of being whipped into obedience, of imposing practice and custom and ritual on the chained that they might never think to be free… all of it wiped away in the span of months.

Weeks and days, in some cases.

Now those armed angry slaves had gathered under one banner, been trained in spear and crossbow and formation. That was an army in the making and it would not fade quietly into the night.

Their system was a tower teetering on the edge of total collapse. Did a man shore up its foundations and pray, or jump off the tower to help push it down?

Zoutos woke with a start. He blinked the sleep from his eyes and made his way to his desk, rereading the message young Varys had intercepted, then shoved it into his clothes before he made his way out.

As had become their custom on Driftmark, he broke fast with Glossos on the deck. Varys was attending to them in place of their usual free bond servants at Zoutos' request. Zoutos had a view of the section lined with firebricks to reduce the risk of fire onboard while the cooks prepared the other magister's meal.

Zoutos himself preferred a glass bowl you could see through, filled with oats and soaked in almond milk overnight. It was somewhat simpler fare that agreed with his aged body this early in the morning, but to ensure others did not mistake _simplicity _with _poverty_, some candied macadamias and saffron had been added just before he ate.

Appearances had to be kept.

"I'm surprised you didn't bring Omorfia," Glossos said from across him, savoring the freshly sizzled bacon, "or that you brought so few of your household with."

"I've interests in Westeros now," Zoutos said. "My time there leads me to think there is more untapped potential, barbarians though they may be." And in some ways, she'd be safer there.

"Ah, and I suppose Omorfia is staying behind to keep an eye on the shop?" Glossos asked, nodding. "Prudent. She's at that age where she'll chafe if not given _some_ freedom."

"You would know best," Zoutos said. Though the younger magister had no children of his blood, he had many to care for and educate. "It feels good to be headed home at long last."

Glossos hummed. "Blackfyre's cause is doomed, and that curr Lashare is dead. I wept for joy the night we heard," he said. "The speed with which these ravens of Westeros fly is remarkable, far faster than the Swift Stallions or any ship. Could you imagine such prompt correspondence in Essos?"

"Every man has a price. Perhaps we might pay some maesters to come teach us their tricks, now that peace has come to our lands at last," Zoutos said.

Glossos nodded from across him, his back to the firebricks. "That's true enough, but I do wonder if peace will come? The Volantenes care not who sits on the Iron Throne, but they care greatly who rules in Lys." The clean shaven younger man smirked. "In the sunsetlanders' struggles to stamp out slavery, they may have yet breathed life back into the slave markets of Pentos."

"I'm sure the Westerosi will manage to reach an accord with Volantis," Zoutos said. "I should hope so anyway. It does not benefit Myr to be under the thumb of the Triarchs, and long have they looked at the Three Daughters enviously."

They'd fought countless minor wars during the Century of Blood, but ultimately Myr and Lys both had been subject to Volantene rule. Only when the tigers overreached and tried to take Tyrosh did a coalition of Targaryen dragonlords, local partisans, and the other Free Cities come together. But if the tigers were to grow in influence again… Tyrosh had been weakened, Myr by more, and Lys most of all. As it was, a new pact of eternal friendship between the Daughters could not resist Volantis.

"It would be a _better _fate than what Velaryon has in mind for us," Glossos said. "We may be acclaimed kings of Myr soon, but kings are not wealthier than magisters. He'd see us impoverished like the Lyseni, unable to compete without slaves. Qohor's tapestries are already cheaper than ours, this will only make matters worse."

Glossos had made his fortune in the trade of educated slaves—translators for magisters, patriarchs, sealords, and pirate kings, or tutors for their sons and daughters. Given his business relied on investing _heavily_ into those same slaves, the slightest erosions of a master's control over the chained was exponentially more dangerous for him than a normal slave owner.

"I suppose you're right. There must be some among the Volantenes who are good," Zoutos said, frown deepening. _Like the ones who are dead._ "As for Braavos, I cannot help but wonder… no, nevermind."

"Wonder what?" Glossos leaned forward.

"It's no secret that Pentos has long chafed under the slavery ban Braavos imposed on them, and their ruling familes hate the military restrictions even more! Why, without an army or the right to make contracts with Free Companies, their twenty war galleys are a paltry shield!" Zoutos said. "But to make common cause with Norvos and Qohor, they'd need more than just gold. They'd need to give the bearded priests and Qohorik magisters a reason for war."

"The Iron Throne provided that reason, if unwittingly," Glossos said. "This Sacred Struggle of theirs has made enough men fear, driving them into the arms of warhawks. They fear the slave uprisings, the Westerosi meddling, and most of all they fear Braavos' growing influence."

"Braavos is strongest among the northern Free Cities." And second only to Volantis, but just barely. In another decade, even that might not be true anymore.

"Braavos is strongest," Glossos agreed, "but not stronger than four Free Cities. Not yet, at least. With each victory Lelouch Velaryon has won, the Sealord's enemies band tighter together. It is whispered Braavos has made a contract with House Targaryen, one that greatly benefits the Sealord. After all, it is not hard to believe Braavos had a hand in this Sacred Struggle given their own stance on slavery."

"What of Lorath?" Zoutos asked. "They hate slavery as much as the Braavosi do."

Glossos smirked. "They do it for entirely simpler reasons: greed. The Braavosi hinterland is rich, and with a coalition forming, they'd be fools not to join in."

Varys approached without prompting, presenting a bottle of Lyseni White. "Magister Zoutos, the wine you asked for?"

Glossos' eyes sparkled. "Is that what I think it is?"

"Your favorite vintage," Zoutos said. "I bought it at such a bargain."

"Exquisite! What would it take for me to pry it from your hands, my friend?" Glossos asked.

"A special occasion," Zoutos said, before turning to Varys. "It is too early in the day for wine. Bring us some juice instead."

Varys nodded, retreating.

"If you'll forgive me for saying, he's not very well trained," Glossos said. "A good servant ought never be seen or heard, but always felt, and I've spotted him lurking through the corridors more times than I care to count."

"His value lies in other matters," Zoutos said.

Glossos took another bite of his bacon and sighed. "Give him to me, and I'll have him whipped into shape."

"That's generous of you, but I'll have to decline," Zoutos said, assessing the creases of his eye. "You seem unusually informed of the affairs up north. Not even my captains know half of this."

"I have my ways," Glossos said as Varys returned with two goblets of freshly squeezed Fossoway apple juice. "After all, many of my 'free bond servants' go on to work in those cities. It earns me the ear of many fine men in _subtler _matters."

"Men such as Triarch Aegador?"

"Among others," Glossos said, patting his rotund stomach as another servant brought a platter stacked with sickeningly sweet pastries that looked sticky to the touch.

"You really should watch what you consume," Zoutos said. "I may outlive you at this rate."

"What is life for if not to enjoy?" Glossos asked. "A toast!"

Zoutos touched his cup to his and drank. It was sweet, yet did not wash away the bitterness lingering in his tongue.

**-ZeroRequiem-**

The _Patron Far-eye_ rowed to a spot on the shore within sight of the city, but not so close a hostile populace could seize them without warning.

All was quiet save the sea's kisses on the sand, like star crossed lovers who could never last, but for however brief would share tender moments together. When they neared the shore, the silence was broken by Glossos' voice, its sweetness intertwining with a melody coaxed from a lute.

"_I loved a maid as fair as summer_

_with sunlight in her hair._

_I loved a maid as red as autumn_

_with sunset in her hair._

_I loved a maid as white as winter_

_with moonglow in her hair._"

Zoutos recognized the song, and though his hoarse voice was of little worth, he sang the traditional last verse with his colleague of many years and friend of many months.

"_I loved a maid as fresh as spring_

_with stormglow in her hair._"

Yet, while Glossos stopped singing, Zoutos continued,

"_The maids I love changed with each season _

_But my love for Myr remains._"

When Zoutos finished, he could feel his friend's eyes on him.

"I've never heard that last verse," Glossos said.

"My grandfather taught it to me," Zoutos said. "When Myr was occupied by Volantis, the partisans would sing it under hushed breathes and dark alleys and hidden rooms. The day the Triarchs were at last driven out, he told me _his_ grandfather sang it from the tallest point of the High Bazaar."

"It's a fine addition," Glossos said, humming. "You will forgive me if I borrow it from now on?"

"It would be a pleasure to hear you sing it," Zoutos said. "Your voice is a credit to your old master."

"He was always kind to me," Glossos said, almost wistful for the days of his youth. "Lygarys taught me more than sweet songs though. I think he saw my potential."

"He was a good judge," Zoutos said. "If only he were alive to see how high you've risen. From a slave to a magister, and not even forty!"

"And soon co-ruler of a Free City too," Glossos said.

Zoutos leaned on the rails. "I must ask… of everyone, I thought you would have liked Velaryon's plans most of all given your _upbringing._ Business interests aside, would you really be so opposed?"

"Of course I would," Glossos said without hesitation. "Why wouldn't I be?"

"I don't imagine it's pleasant being a slave," Zoutos said, frowning. Not that he himself had ever been one.

"Being a slave is a hard life, and I recognize I was more fortunate than most," Glossos said, clutching his stomach. "But there is nothing inherently wrong with the system. It has been the way of Essos for centuries, since the glorious days of Old Valyria. If I was able to rise to such heights, what excuse does anyone have?"

"There are places where slavery is not practices."

Glossos snorted. "Westeros, where the barbarians live? They don't even have proper sewages in that wretched city of kings! I am glad to be away from it. As for the rest, are they even worth mentioning? Sarnor was shackled by the Dothraki, and their people quiver in their last walled city."

"Yi Ti has no slaves, and they've more cities west of the Bone Mountains than all of Valyria ever had at its height," Zoutos said. "Magisters are richer than kings, but YiTish princes are richer than magisters."

"You can't tell me you believe those tales about living in houses of gold and eating sweetmeats with pearls and jade powdered over it? More likely the seamen imbibed some exotic herb, or mistook spices for powdered pearls."

"If it were true, I would not blink," Zoutos said. "Golden saffron is worth more than the metal, and they have plenty of it."

"I shall believe it when I see it," Glossos said.

"You're too fat to travel that far," Zoutos said dryly.

Glossos grinned, poking himself in the stomach. "Then I suppose I'll never believe it."

Zoutos nodded, and gestured for Varys to approach with two pre-filled cups and the rest of the bottle. "I promised it would take a special occasion to pry this bottle from my hands."

Glossos clapped. "And what's the occasion?"

"We're home at last," Zoutos said, handing his friend the first cup Varys offered. "I trust mine has been watered down the way I like it?"

"Of course, Magister Zoutos. It is as you instructed," Varys said.

"Watered down?" Glossos asked, appalled. "You're wasting such splendid drink like this by watering it down?"

"I've always found it too sweet for my liking," Zoutos replied.

"How are we even friends," Glossos said in faux anger, before savoring his drink with a happy sound.

Zoutos drank as well. It was sweet, yet did not wash away the growing bitterness lingering in his tongue.

**-ZeroRequiem-**

Cici had already coaxed the city into surrendering when they arrived with the promise of leniency and the return of the rule by magister.

So it was to great fanfare and the roaring of Myrmens that they entered Myr. Petals of every shade and scent fell on their shoulders, while Lyseni and Myrmen ex-slaves kept the crowds at bay. Lashare's cronies, the nine new magisters, presented themselves humbly, and in the view of the public were forgiven for past misdeeds if they recognized the supremacy of Glossos and Zoutos' joint rule.

Lashare had stripped the city bare of training fighting men, so of course they accepted.

Cici watched all of it with amusement, and after escorting the ill-looking Glossos to his manse, turned to Zoutos. "I heard in Lys that there lives a master of great power in your city. The man spoke of prophecies."

"Those are dangerous things," Zoutos said.

Cici licked her lips. "I've acquired a taste for dangerous things."

Zoutos glanced at Varys, who had not left her side since they arrived. "Would you like me to accompany you there?"

"If it's not an imposition," Cici said. "I thought I might return his candle to him."

"You have a _glass_ candle?"

"Sadly," Cici said, "it's broken. I thought he might help me fix it, or give me a new one."

"This is not done lightly," Zoutos warned. "Once you hear his words, they will haunt you."

"I'm no stranger to hauntings," Cici said, looking him in the eye. "As for doing things lightly, neither is what _you_ did."

"It had to be done." He had seen Lelouch Velaryon's wrath, that great and terrible thing to behold. Myr would not be subject to it, not ever, not if Zoutos could help it.

The house Cici brought them to was pristine, with winter roses blooming in its garden. Hidden beneath the deep shadows of a hillock, its serenity bothered Zoutos more than his sins.

Cici walked up to the door without fear and knocked.

"So you came," a voice like velvet said.

"So I did," Cici said. "I trust you won't offer me anything to drink?"

"You're no queen. I've no use for your blood." The door's lock unlatched and it opened without sound. "Come in, please."

"Your apprentice seemed to think it might work," Cici said.

Zoutos followed her inside the hall lined with low burning candles. It was well lit, and kept immaculate.

"As always, he grasps the surface of things, and not the spirit of them," the Master said. "You are not _of_ here."

"Not from Myr," Cici said, handing him the glass candle.

"Not from anywhere," the Master said, taking it in both hands and examining it critically. "You wish to hear the rest of the prophecy?"

"I don't wish it," Cici said, "but I must. I cannot protect him from things I do not know of."

Zoutos frowned at her words.

"A city, in passion, stained red," the Master recited. "A city of slavers turned black."

Zoutos froze. Lys was the first, clearly. He'd seen the bloodstains. But a city of slavers… there were many of those. Volantis perhaps? It was famed for its Black Walls. Qohor had its Black Goat of a deity.

"A city," the Master continued, " for magic, burned green."

"Wildfire," Zoutos said. "You speak of wildfire."

"I do not know what I speak of," the Master said. "I am merely the vessel, the humble messenger."

"This has been most enlightening," Cici said.

Zoutos turned to her. "You understood that."

"Oh, not at all," she said. "But in time, I suppose it will be made clear. You timed it perfectly by the way."

Outside, unceasingly, the people of _Myr roared darkly_, and Zoutos knew why. It did not take long for a soldier to rush in, blabbering about poison and a dead magister.

"There will be purges for this," Zoutos said softly.

"The times they are a-changin," Cici said.


	28. Bitter

**Chapter 28: Bitter**

The first time Lelouch arrived at King's Landing, after Summerhall, he'd been greeted by an angry sullen silence, while cloaks of gold and cloaks of white impeded him at every gate. The second time Lelouch arrived at King's Landing, after the Battle of Seafyre, he'd been greeted by half-hearted cheers from the young and bold, while cloaks of gold marched behind him and cloaks of white ushered him through doors.

This third time, he'd been greeted by a riot of clapping hands and the seven ringing bells of Baelor's Sept. Lelouch rode right behind Aerys, with the likes of Ser Gerold, Lord Baratheon, Tywin—while cloaks of gold and white and lords most high trailed after him.

A shower of scented petals fell wherever they went, almost masking the putrid odor of dead fish and shit and death.

You could not go ten paces without spotting a Targaryen dragon flying from the roofs or outside windows. Fair maidens born high and low giggled as they passed, and more than a few threw things at Lelouch that would make a septa's tongue crack like a whip. The young and old alike lined the streets, while septons shouted praises and prayers both.

The noise nearly drowned out the screams, and his mind's incessant, treacherous whispering: "_What if…"_

"The Seven bless Prince Aerys and House Targaryen!"

"Good fortune to you, Ser Lelouch!" cried a begging brother in his tattered brown robes.

"It's the White Bull, and beside him is the Seafyre!" said a little boy to his little friends. "The hero of Naqes!"

_A hero_, Lelouch thought bitterly. They called him a hero and he felt nothing like one.

What sort of hero condemns his own uncle to a fate worse than death? Tens of thousands dead, and in the end...

The Blackfyre cause was as dead as Maelys and the Golden Company. His Band of Nine too, save for the Archon of Tyrosh, and Lashare he'd beheaded with his own hand. Yet he felt no satisfaction from any of it.

_You started this war to see your uncle freed_, a voice whispered. _Is he any freer now? Isn't he _less _free now?_

All his enemies had lost more in the war, but that didn't mean he _hadn't_ lost with them. The Dothraki savages under Khal Yaggo had already been on the move, headed back to their primitive grasslands well before the fields were drenched in blood. The first of the light cavalry Lelouch had sent out were found without their heads.

Lashare had poisoned the khal's ears… or perhaps this Yaggo had grasped what a threat to the slave trade Westeros was now...

Whichever the case, Yaggo's khalasar was already in the midst of crossing the Lhorulu, the Smiling Daughter of the Rhoyne, when the first _live_ scouts returned with their reports. It was too far for the army to pursue, even for rested men, even if the crownland lords were willing to risk their lives for his cause.

Lelouch had two thousand men whose loyalty was to Driftmark, and another two thousand more ex-slaves, but the vast majority of these were on foot. These men were not the Golden Company, who might match horses by sheer will and _grit, _grinding them down day after day after day. They were just men.

As they reached the Red Keep, Gerold pointed out a tall, cream-skinned beauty with a head of spun sunlight leaning over the battlements. "Malora is here," he said with some surprise.

"Ser Leyton's eldest daughter?" Lelouch asked as they dismounted in the courtyard. Their procession continued on foot through the Red Keep. Tywin hobbled through it with some help and great dignity.

"Aye," he said. "After her last visit, I thought she'd have grown weary of this place."

"When was that?"

"Long before your sister arrived," Gerold said. "When Lady Jenny brought her dwarf friend to court."

Lelouch remembered his father mentioning it in passing once. "The woods witch?"

"If you could call her that. Malora certainly did. To me, she was just a mad, white woman with queer red eyes," Gerold said. "She'd not speak in the presence of men the few days she was here, and Malora returned to Oldtown not long afterwards."

"I haven't had the pleasure of speaking with Malora," Lelouch said. "She made herself quite sparse when I visited my brother."

"My grandniece always did prefer to keep books for company. You're as smart as any book though, so perhaps she'll like talking to you."

The oak-and-bronze doors of the Great Hall swung inwards, and Aerys led them forward, through the carpeted path left for them by the crowd of highborn. He came to a stop just at the base of the Iron Throne and all of them knelt before it.

"My lords, please, stand," the king ordered, and they acquiesced.

Aerys pulled out Blackfyre to the gasps of their audience. "Your Grace, in the midst of campaign Ser Lelouch, the Seafyre, came across this ancient blade of House Targaryen." He approached at the king's gesture, walking up that twisted, _ugly _thing of a thousand broken blades, and offering yet another sword to that monument of Targaryen legitimacy: _force of arms_.

"As its rightful wielder, I offer it to you now," Aerys said, "Blackfyre, the sword of kings."

The king grasped the blade in his frail hands, raking over its polish and splendor with keen eyes the match of Blackfyre. After a long while, he said, "House Targaryen thanks you for your faithful service, Ser Lelouch. May all present know that you have brought much glory and honor to House Velaryon in this last Blackfyre Rebellion."

"The king honors me with his words," Lelouch said, bowing. He could spot his father puffing out his chests and resisted the urge to roll his eyes at this _pageantry. _It wouldn't be proper.

The king turned to his son. "Blackfyre is the sword of kings, and kings to be. It is my will that you continue to wield this on my behalf. Keep it sheathed, but sharp at all times."

Those words were spoken more to the assembled lords than Aerys for Valyrian steel did not chip or dull or need sharpening.

"As you command, Your Grace," Aerys said.

"All hail King Jaehaerys Targaryen," said Baratheon, "the Second of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and _Protector_ of the Realm!"

"All hail King Jaehaerys, long may he reign!" the crowd said.

King Jaehaerys stood at last. "The last of the male Blackfyres is dead, and their threat to all Westeros is at an end. House Targaryen is victorious!"

_There are no winners in war,_ Lelouch thought, _just people who lose less._

And afterwards, the celebration.

The king had set a midday table with the full bounty of Westeros on display, and judging by the constant stream of platters and pitchers streaming out the kitchens, it seemed there was enough food to see them through to supper. All the Lords Paramount sat with the royal family at the high table, yet it was Lelouch seated between the king's children, to Prince Aerys' right. To Aerys' left was Joanna, then Tywin next to her.

There was a stuffed suckling pig swimming in plum sauce, a rack of lamb heavily spiced, and platters of ribs slow-cooked into exceeding tenderness. Servants one after the other carried baked apples fragrant with cinnamon; a blood orange cake frosted with sugar; salads of sweetgrass sprinkled with a rich, grated cheese and crushed nuts; baked salmon and fried cod and lobsters dripping with buttery garlic. He even spotted some lean whale meat cut into strips of steak, seasoned with garlic and coriander; cumin and ginger, heavily peppered too in the way Tyroshi liked their gamier meats.

The king ate the whale, one bite at a time.

He was in deep conversation with Lord Baratheon to his right, likely over matters of state. Baratheon was still the Hand after all. Queen Shaera would interject from time to time besides King Jaehaerys. Meanwhile, Princess Rhaelle—the Lady Baratheon—was seated between her husband and Lelouch's father, who she'd engaged in a far less serious discussion about renewed trade in the narrow sea.

In front of Lelouch was a plate of crisp golden frog legs and cubes of bread browned in butter piled high and garnished with ground white peppers. As he scooped a piece onto his plate, Lelouch caught a faint whiff of lemon.

"It's cooked the way the Braavosi like it done," Rhaella said to him with a sagely nod, in a voice not her own. "They place it in a pot of water and raise the heat by a smidgen over the course of many hours. Done properly, the frog will just sit there, heedless of the heat. Then they chop it up and fry it."

It was clear the princess had never seen a frog cooked if she mistook the fable for fact. "Thank the Seven you were born a princess, for you'd have made a poor mummer," Lelouch said, rolling his eyes. "Who was that supposed to be? Your father?"

"How poor could I have been if you guessed it right?"

"It was either him or your mother," Lelouch said, "and you needn't try so hard if it were her." Who else would a princess be around enough times _and_ be someone she couldn't avoid?

Rhaella stabbed her spinach salad with a fork, spearing through almond slivers and making red berries bleed. Then, she smiled all too sweetly at him. "Is that so?"

_Withdraw or follow through?_ Had this been before the campaign began, commiting would've been the only feasible option as a means of standing out among all the lordlings vying for her hand. Now, Lelouch had his sterling military reputation and his friendship with Aerys to use as a crutch, if he preferred.

And yet… where would the satisfaction be in that? At every turn, he had gambled. He'd not always won—no one did—but great victories were not without great risk. Meekness was not his tried and true companion.

_Perhaps that's why I was never meant to inherit the earth? _he thought wryly. "Do you remember what I said to you last we spoke in this hall, seated side by side as we are?"

"That was so long ago. You aren't so important that I recall our… _delightful_ conversations," Rhaella said with wide, round eyes, lips slightly parted and shimmering. She would look the picture of innocence if not for the treacherous twitching at the corners of her lips.

"I told you your hand was most sought after by all the lords of the realm," Lelouch said. "I did not lie to you then, I do not intend to begin now."

"Ah, but you did lie to me, my lord," Rhaella said, lips quirking upwards. "In one instance, at least. You said my brother would marry in a year's time. It is now a year and a week, and I've yet to hear of his betrothal… or does he have a secret bride in Essos? Tyrosh perhaps?"

_Was she implying…? _Lelouch's brow arched up as she grinned impishly. "No."

"I suppose you're right. Tyrosh would be far too bleak with all that _black _hanging about them."

She'd been casting shade not only on the deal he'd brokered with the Archon, but also implied Aerys would never take a Tyroshi bride given Blackfyre's history.

_When did she learn to play this game? _Lelouch leaned into his chair and smiled. "Alas, I thought too highly of myself even then. I still do, so men older than I say from time to time. You'll be glad to know, at least, that the monster who made a liar out of me is vanquished."

"By the bold Ser Barristan, I hear," Rhaella said. "He must be quite _skilled_ with the sword. Would you happen to know anything about that?"

_Joanna's old trick, come again in a different stripe_. _Either she's a quick study or Joanna is a better teacher than I thought._ "I've never had the pleasure of witnessing it, but Ser Ronnel—I suppose its _Lord_ Ronnel now—certainly did when he went down."

The new Lord Paramount of the Vale had suffered a nasty wound to the stomach while valiantly protecting the old one. It had not fully healed yet judging by Ronnel's sluggish motions, and his life might be at risk even now judging by how he wholly abstained from wine.

"I met your friend the other day," Rhaella said, tipping her head towards Lady Omorfia Ayas, as men were wont to call her now. It was politically prudent for her to be invited to this show of Targaryen majesty. "She told me such fine tales over a slice of pizza."

Lelouch looked down at his plate, then back to Rhaella. "Tales have a habit of growing with each telling," Lelouch said.

Rhaella hummed. "Even ones about a green-haired woman?"

"_Especially_ ones about her," Lelouch said.

"Here I thought you were a slave to duty."

_A dutiful nephew would have chosen ignoble peace over vengeance. _He downed his goblet and grabbed the pitcher of Arbor gold with his good hand. Lashare hadn't quite managed to stab through his left hand like Yellow Teeth had at Myr, but the cut was still a deep one. "You will be wed soon, I imagine," he said, deflecting.

"You secured House Targaryen's throne with the sword," Rhaella said, "but Father says now is the time to secure it with vows."

"Peace is more difficult than war in some ways," Lelouch said. Like how he'd been forced to make peace with the need for patience. He had not the men to pursue the Dothraki this year, but they would be paid back a hundredfold in due time. "Who have you in mind?"

"What you're really asking is who does my father have in mind."

"I said I would not lie," Lelouch said. _I already know that, if how we're seated is anything to go by_. "I meant what I asked plainly."

"Why should my thoughts matter? Love has nothing to do with marriage, my lord."

Lelouch tilted his head. "I didn't think you saw it as I do."

"I suppose," Rhaella said, "that you would not be so terrible. At least the scars are on your hand and not somewhere important like your face."

"Scars make a man look rugged," Lelouch said.

"If you're well-built like my uncle, yes. A lean thing like you? Well…"

"Then I shall be glad my face is deemed passable in your eyes," Lelouch said dryly.

"You don't sound particularly enthusiastic about that," Rhaella said, narrowing her eyes. "So, this green-haired woman of yours…"

"Cici," Lelouch offered.

"Cici," Rhaella said, tasting the name. "You must really love her that even a royal match does not please you. "

Few women would be pleased knowing the man they might soon be betrothed to loved another. Yet, to deny it, with all the whispers abound… there would always be doubt there no matter how clever his words. Hadn't he just promised he would not lie to Rhaella Targaryen?

Once more into the breach.

"What I feel for her cannot be easily put into words," Lelouch said.

"That fleeting quickening of your pulse, that rapid rush of the heart? The fluttering warmth in your stomach, like butterflies on a summer day?"

"For such an unimportant, if delightful, conversation, you seem to remember plenty, Your Grace," Lelouch said. "What I feel for Cici is not that kind of love." He sighed. "It does not matter."

"In point of fact, it matters quite a bit to me," Rhaella said. Her tone turned almost wistful as she continued, "You know, when I first heard that _the _Lelouch Velaryon's heart had learned to love at last, I could scarcely believe it. It sounded just like the stories I read of, but life is rarely like the stories as Aerys tells me." She leaned forward, eyes narrowed. "My father says you've waged this war to avenge your uncle, so you must be a man that loves deeply. What is the truth of things, I wonder?"

"I do love her," Lelouch admitted. "Not to wed her, or bed her… but if there is one thing I should hope to do in this life, it is to make her happy."

Rhaella raised her brow. "Yet, you will not marry your mistress."

"She is not my mistress," Lelouch said.

"What should we call the woman you share your bed with then?" Rhaella asked. "Do you honestly expect me to believe you _haven't _slept with her?"

"What we share is not that," Lelouch said, injecting some heat into his words. "It is more akin to what you feel for family, yet not entirely alike either. Like I said, it is difficult to truly explain. I wish to make her _happy_."

Rhaella seemed ponderous. "Will you set her aside then once you've married?"

Lelouch shook his head. "No more than I could set aside Alarra, or my brother, or my cousins. I could not do that to her again."

"Lady Omorfia tells me you met in Myr," Rhaelle said. "That was less than a year and four months ago, if memory serves me correct. You speak of her like one would a lifelong friend."

Lelouch graced her with a ghost of a smile. "Is time the sum of relationships?"

"It certainly helps," Rhalle said, a hint of curiosity glinting behind her eyes. "You would have her watch as you wed another?"

"She understands that this is about marriage, not happiness," Lelouch said.

"How callous," Rhaella said. "Why should who I want matter then?"

"Because love can be learned," Lelouch repeated. "Because to love is a choice. Marriage is duty, but it need not be without affection, or at the very least some measure of tolerance and understanding."

He glanced at his cousins, trueborn and baseborn, seated with the heiress of Myr's new Archmagister. "I've seen what happens when marriage is without these qualities."

The highborn of Westeros had dined, so now they danced. The Targaryens led them in this as in all things, but it was Aerys and Rhaella—not the king and queen—through whom the dragons displayed their grace.

With Aerys' seat empty, Lelouch found himself looking at Joanna when he turned to his left. Tywin, who ought to have been seated on her other side, was nowhere to be seen. "I'm surprised Aerys did not choose you for his first dance," Lelouch said.

"I could say the same for Rhaella and you," Joanna said.

Lelouch watched as Aerys twirled his sister round and round. "I fear I might have displeased her with my candor tonight."

"It was certainly a bold plot from you," Joanna said. "Yet, I think honesty will serve you well in the end. You do make for an interesting puzzle to her if nothing else."

Lelouch tilted his head to the side. "And you? I've not heard you say anything tonight that might've displeased the prince."

"He does it out of consideration," Joanna said.

"I see," Lelouch said, shifting in his seat. "This will be poor comfort, I know, but I am sorry about your father. Ser Jason fought bravely whilst under my command."

Her eyes met his for the first time, slightly watered and incredibly sad. "So everyone says." She blinked a few times before saying, "Who was it that killed him in the end?"

"It was Liomond Lashare that dealt the killing blow," Lelouch said, "but he was injured already before then. It was on _my_ orders that the Lannister cavalry suffered great losses that day."

"Lashare… he has wrought great pain to the both of us then," Joanna said. "I'm glad you killed him."

Lelouch glanced at Donnall. "I would have died too, if not for my cousin. He defeated Lashare in the end, even if it was my dagger that slit his throat."

She was quiet for a long while. "Tywin tells me that that bloody charge secured my marriage to the prince."

"I cannot say I know the king's thoughts."

She pinned him down with her gaze. "I trust your judgment."

Lelouch took a deep breath. "If anything, it is your own charms and House Lannister's commitment to the war that has made you his queen-to-be. Only a blind, deaf, and dumb man could deny Aerys' fond affections for you, and King Jaehaerys has made his intentions clear with how he's seated us."

In a celebration as important as this, not even the seating was left to chance. One need only see the parallels in arrangement between the king, the king's sister, and the queen, to Aerys, Rhaella, and Joanna. It was plain as day to anyone who understood symbolic politics.

"Thank you," Joanna said quietly. "I worry for Tywin."

"He has lost a leg, and an uncle in the span of a single battle," Lelouch said. "That would be a blow for any man."

"He spoke with his sister right before this feast, you know."

"What did he say to Genna?" Lelouch asked.

"Not to pursue you any longer," Joanna said with a sad smile. "It's a shame. I really did think you would've been good for each other. She spoke fondly of her time with you at Duskendale."

"I found her charming as well," Lelouch said. Had he not been so wildly successful, had the Targaryens decided to marry Rhaella to someone else… "I wish her the best, truly. What does Tywin have in mind for her now?"

Joanna's eyes scanned the room, then she gestured with her head.

Genna wore a wool dress the way the river ladies liked it, with wavy patterns, but in an eye-catching Lannister crimson. When she spinned, she looked like a girl wreathed in fire. When she stopped, her bosom pressed against her partner's chest.

Hoster Tully looked absolutely smitten.

"Many would say that's a step up from some humble crownland lordling," Lelouch said. There were fewer ways to spite old Walder Frey then by giving the hand he sought for his sons to his liege lord instead.

"Not Tywin," Joanna said. She graced him with a hint of a grin. "Though, between this and the business with the Crakehalls, I think he means for old Walder's heart to give out from sheer spite."

Lelouch lifted his goblet in toast. The Crakehalls were a powerful house that secured the westerlands border with the Reach along the ocean road, while the riverlands would secure their east. "Tywin's mother is a Marbrand of Ashemark, isn't she?"

"Lord Alyn's only daughter," Joanna confirmed, then in a lower voice added, "and they hold no love for the Reynes after the _murder_ of his cousin Denys six years prior."

Castamere and Tarbeck Hall were powerful fiefs adjacent to each other, but they were sandwiched between Ashemark and Casterly Rock. "You've heard the whispers," Lelouch said, "that the king might make Reynard Reyne a white cloak?"

"How could I not?" Joanna's full lips thinned. "Reynard was always the more cunning and charming of the brothers. He was the one who talked Lord Tytos into forgiving his brother's wanton murder of Ser Denys and his men… but Tywin has not forgotten, or forgiven." Her eyes glinted dangerously. "Neither have I."

He knew that look well.

"A reckoning is coming," Lelouch said. "I count you and Tywin to be my friends. If you should ever need help, you need only ask."

"I thank you," Joanna said, folding her hands on her lap, "but this is a matter House Lannister must settle on its own. We are prepared for what's to come."

They could not accept his help, else they'd look weak to their own bannermen, and they looked weak enough after years of Lord Tytos' misrule.

Lelouch nodded, and lifted his goblet again.

**-ZeroRequiem-**

Side by side walked father and son through the keep within a keep known as Maegor's Holdfast.

"You've done well, my son," Father said, his cane echoing loudly against stone. "No, _more_ than well. You've accomplished more than I thought possible. We've not been held in such high esteem, nor honored with a Targaryen bride, since the days of the Oakenfist."

"I failed," Lelouch said. "No, _worse _than failed. Uncle Adamm is now a slave to some Dothraki savage, where he used to be just a prisoner of war! I set out to rescue him, and all I did was damn him in the end." _Would that I'd not helped at all…_

"I grieve for my brother too. He was my right hand in all things at sea, and I remember the days we used to sail together, when we dreamed of being pirate kings among the Stepstones," Father said. "His fate is not a kind one, but the fault for that is not yours to bear."

"How can it not be mine?" Lelouch asked, running a hand through his hair. "It was I that split our forces at Myr. It was _I_ that spoke out against Lashare, after he'd warned me of what he'd do. I cannot claim ignorance as my shield. I _knew _what would happen to him if I spoke out, yet I did it anyway."

Father stopped walking to lean against the wall, breathing heavier than usual. "You waged a war for your uncle. Against the might of two Free Cities and the Golden Company and countless sellsword companies of no small renown—and you did it without hesitation."

"I waged that war against the Blackfyres for House Targaryen," Lelouch said.

"You used the Blackfyres as an _excuse_," Father said, "and the Sacred Struggle as well. From the start, this war was about your uncle to you."

"Then how can you stand there," Lelouch asked, "and say that I have done well?"

"There are few men in history," Father said, "who could have managed what you did, with what men you had to work with. You began this war as nothing but my heir, and somehow you gathered to yourself a coalition of unlikely allies from Myr to Duskendale. At every battle you were outnumbered and outmatched and you _won_."

Lelouch's fists tightened into angry balls. "Naqes was not a victory. The Battle of Three Armies was not a _victory_."

"Your part in Naqes was," Father said. "As for the final battle with Blackfyre and Lashare… you let your early successes cloud your perspective on what victory is."

"That battle was a slaughter."

"It was," Father said with a grim smile. "War is a horror not to be taken on lightly. Despite your best efforts, there will never be such a thing as an absolute victory."

He grasped Lelouch by the shoulders. "Yet, you led our family through this ordeal. You return to me alive and mostly unharmed, with Corwyn and Donnall. Had that been all you brought home, I would have counted that a bargain and thanked the Seven for my luck." His smile grew warmer and wider. "Instead, you return having won the friendship of Prince Aerys and Princess Rhaella's hand is now all but certain. You have showered our house in so much gold and glory that even the Darklyns will look to us, to _you_ for leadership in the coming years. That is not nothing."

"It is not what I wanted," Lelouch said.

"It is what it is," Father said. "You had a duty to your uncle, yes, but you also have a duty to the Iron Throne, and to the rest of our house. In these charges you have performed admirably."

"All I had to do was give up Uncle Adamm," Lelouch said bitterly.

Then Father did something he had rarely done before. His arms enveloped Lelouch in an embrace. "My son, the fault for that was not yours. It was Lashare who imprisoned him, then decided to give him into slavery. Did you point a sword at Lashare's throat and tell him to do it? Did you not expend every reasonable effort to free your uncle?"

Lelouch blinked back the tears.

"We will mourn my brother on the morrow," Father said, pulling away. "We will mourn him in the way of our people, among fires and family."

"He is not dead," Lelouch said.

"He is lost to us for some time at least," Father said. "I know you will not rest, nor let this end here, but you will need men and money in great quantities if you mean to bring the khals to heel. King Jaehaerys and Prince Aerys both think fondly of you; the Iron Throne is the quickest and surest way to gaining both." He straightened his back, drawing himself up to full height. "We will mourn Adamm not because he is dead, but because there is a need for closure. I will not have the memory of what could have beens weighing down the future of our house."

Father gestured for Lelouch to walk on ahead of him. "The king is waiting to see you. Go on."

"Aren't you coming?" Lelouch asked, wiping his eyes with the sleeves of his clothes.

"He did not ask to see me," Father said with a kindly smile.

"It was implied," Lelouch said.

Father shook his head. "It is a test, and one I have faith in you to see through. You have made me proud, my son. Never doubt that."

Maegor's Holdfast was filled with courtiers in red livery, servants with plates and goblets, and knights in silver armor. Even this late into the afternoon there were still men dulling their senses with mead, maids and merriment. Wherever Lelouch went, men dipped their heads and girls smiled shyly.

At last he arrived outside the king's solar, guarded by the stalwart Ser Gerold and the newly-appointed Ser Barristan. The other two spots on the Kingsguard remained vacant still, but would be filled before long. _Perhaps I should ask the king to make Donnall a white cloak? _Lelouch mused. His cousin had deeds of his own to sing about, and it would be a great honor. And if he happened to snatch that spot from the Reynes, all the better.

The king's solar was richly decorated from the snow bear rug splayed out on the floor to a familiar Lysene tapestry hanging over the king's rosewood table.

"Kevan Lannister's squiring is at an end," Lord Ormund Baratheon said to the king. "By all accounts, he is a formidable warrior and would make a fine addition for the Order."

_The Order? _"You summoned me, Your Grace," Lelouch interjected.

"Ah, Lelouch," Jaehaerys said. "Come seat yourself. Would you like a drink? We've some fine vintages today."

"Thank you," Lelouch said, eyes raking through the selection on offer. "Mayhaps the Fossoway cider?"

"Afraid you've had a bit too much to drink, eh?" Baratheon asked.

"My father would be most displeased if I made a drunken fool of myself," Lelouch said. "A lack of foreseeable wars to regain my honor, you see."

Baratheon laughed, glancing meaningfully at the king. "Boy's got a good head on him, even now."

"How did you find the feast?" Jaehearys asked.

"I found the variety splendid," Lelouch said. "The fried Braavosi frogs and Tyroshi whale strips, in particular, were _delectable_."

The men shared a look.

"How much do you know about Braavos?" Baratheon asked.

"I know they're losing their war badly," Lelouch said. "From what I know about Essosi wars, they'll swallow a hard peace soon."

Baratheon nodded. "Pentos could soon rearm, and it will hurt Braavos even more to hand over swathes of their hinterlands. It will not be the end of them though."

"Wars are rarely the end of Free Cities," Lelouch said. The Sealord still had the largest fleets in the known world, and Braavos could not be taken without control of the seas surrounding it. Any losses they suffered could quickly be replaced by their famed Arsenal.

"Their quarrels are also endless," Jaehaerys said, sharp eyes boring into him. "It would be greatly distressing to my lords if I were to abandon all the gains we've made in Essos, yet it would equally be distressing to be drawn into another war after ending one so recently. Aerys' inheritance from me shall not be a string of wars. What would you advise?"

"Frogs and whales," Lelouch answered. It was the entire foreign policy of the Iron Throne laid out together with the king's orders about Blackfyre. "Keep our gains modest, that the Free Cities do not think the Iron Throne is a threat. Let them continue to make war on each other, and in making war with each other seek the goodwill of the Crown."

Jaehaerys nodded. "Modest gains… I take it you do not support the annexation of Lys? They have no real strength left to oppose us, and islands, even far off islands, are easy enough to hold. I might make you a Lord Paramount of that place."

"It is, as you say, a far off island," Lelouch said. "We could never hold Lys for long, and the damage to the Iron Throne's reputation would be severe. We cannot go back on our word with Volantis without a war breaking out, and Braavos will not love us for it either. To their merchants, contracts are everything." He drank, letting the taste of green apples linger on his tongue a little before swallowing. "The conquest of a Free City would be a grave overreach, and invite all of Essos to unite against us."

"Surely," Baratheon said, "the great commander who brought about victories like the Battle of Seafyre and the Battle Beneath the Storm is not _afraid_ of some Essosi _coin counters_?"

Did they think to goad him like some green boy with a head full of summer dreams? "I fear them, and so should you, if you are wise," Lelouch said.

"We've humbled three of the Free Cities already," Baratheon said. "What are six more?"

"We humbled them that they'd rather make peace with us and hold on to their power," Lelouch said. "It is a mistake to think of our victory as a total one. Even then, we were fortunate that Maelys Blackfyre and their countless war had already left them spent."

The Free Cities were ill prepared for the sort of war Westeros brought to their shores, and it had still taken several months of targeted, widespread scorched earth tactics from Blackfyre and themselves to starve Lys, while the tributaries of Tyrosh fell more due to the short-sightedness and inexperience of those lesser ruling magisters. Had they decided not to hoard their food, it would have significantly delayed any slave uprising.

It was unlikely they would see similar successes with the same methods in the next war.

"He is as you said he is," Jaehearys said to Baratheon. "Your judgment remains impeccable."

"Thank you," Baratheon said, grinning ear to ear.

Lelouch breathed out. He had passed the test.

"You are correct, Lelouch Velaryon, that Lys will not be made to pay fealty to the Iron Throne, or any land on Essos itself for that matter," Jaehearys said.

"But the Stepstones are different," Lelouch concluded from his omission. The islands were difficult to govern and pacify for two reasons: the large pirate infestation in the region, and the competing claims of several regional powers. It was one nexus through which Volantis and Braavos made indirect war on each other.

"Far more feasible, though much of that will depend on how the coming talks go," Jaehaerys said. "When the current revelry is over, I mean to invite men from all over Essos to discuss the matter."

Myr, Lys, and Tyrosh were certain given their proximity, and Braavos too would be invited. Norvos and Qohor were too far, and their fleets were restricted to the rivers of Rhoyne and Qhoyne. Lorath was weakest among the free cities, and had not the wealth from great trading fleets to be a voice in such proceedings. Volantis had already promised not to interfere after the Peace of the Gateway was put to ink. Pentos was another possibility, for though they had no more than twenty war galleys currently, they might soon be freed from those old restrictions and become a minor power in their own right once more.

If powerful men could be made to see why Westeros' stewardship over these islands was more to their benefit, and arrangements were made, lasting peace might be had.

"The tolls are crucial," Lelouch said. "Sole power over its levying must remain with the Crown, for if every Stepstone lord could do with it as they wished, the Iron Throne's assurances would be worth nothing to Essos. That must be paired with keeping those places free of pirates too."

Arguing that the tolls would be a lesser financial burden than risk of losing ships only works if that risk could be reduced through Westerosi action.

"Many of whom you share friendships with, I'm told," Jaehaerys said.

"Mutually beneficial partnerships, Your Grace," Lelouch corrected. "We can offer the trustworthy among them a place in the new order of things, knighthoods perhaps or places in the new fleet needed to uphold the King's Peace. Those that refuse must be killed or driven off."

"I dare say you know those islands better than anyone," Baratheon said. "Do you believe it can be done?"

"We left strong garrisons on each island, I believe?" Lelouch asked.

"Maybe half a thousand men on each," Baratheon said, "and we intend to raise a new order of men to lead them."

_Kevan Lannister being one of them_, Lelouch thought. This new order of men would also likely become the lords of the Stepstones in time, though perhaps with less rights than most lords were accustomed to.

"It can be done," Lelouch said, "but when we strike, it must be decisive. Saintsport will be the hardest to take with its walls, but it is not a particularly well-fortified town. The other pirate dens will be easier to overrun." The hard part really was finding them, but if they were suddenly cut off from the local farmers and fisherfolk… well, the pirates could hardly live off of a diet of silks and spices.

"Good," Jaehaerys said. "Someone at least must remember the reasons behind our actions when it is Aerys' time to rule."

"With respect, Your Grace, would it not be wiser to tell Prince Aerys of these things?" Lelouch asked.

"Soon enough, Aerys will be told." The king's hands steepled. "Yet, when it is his time to rule, he will need advisors to guide him. You've a keen mind. I suspect he will choose you as his Hand at some point."

"We are not deaf to the ways he speaks of you," Baratheon added. "Friendships forged in the heart of war are like tempered steel and not easily broken."

"You will be his good-brother too," Jaehaerys said.

Lelouch bowed. "You honor me, Your Grace." He'd suspected, but to hear it straight from the king's mouth was only a short step from a formal announcement to the realm.

"Good service must be rewarded," Jaehaerys said, "and you have served better than most. Now, I suspect you have ambitions for Driftmark that go beyond a new castle?"

"I've plans to restore Spicetown to its old glories," Lelouch said.

"You will need a charter for a city." Baratheon crossed his arms. "Long have the Darklyns of Duskendale petitioned the Crown for one, but they have never received it."

_I can argue precedent_, Lelouch thought. Spicetown would not be a new charter, just the renewal of an old one… but while that might prove a reasonable excuse to offer to the Darklyns, it was not a persuasive argument from the Crown's perspective. "Duskendale would become a trade hub to rival King's Landing if given a charter, but Spicetown would not."

"Oh?" Jaehaerys' brow quirked. "Elaborate."

"Duskendale produces no goods that King's Landing doesn't already make," Lelouch said. "They would compete with you for Essosi trade as well."

"And Spicetown would be different how exactly?" Baratheon asked, always asking the questions the king wouldn't ask but wanted to know the answers to. It was a useful strategy that would deflect any ill will the questions raised away from the Crown, and the Crown in turn would shield the Hand from reprisal.

You've heard of the freed slaves I have brought to Driftmark?" Lelouch asked.

"The High Septon has mentioned it once or twice," Jaehaerys said. "He was impressed that you'd sacrifice your wealth to house these people and give them new livelihoods."

Lelouch shrugged. "It was not entirely altruistic, Your Grace. I intend to make Driftmark and Spicetown compete with _Essos_. The goods we will make will be carpets, laces, and mirrors like those in Myr, or sweetwater that the Lyseni would wear. I've dyers who'd see to making Tyroshi purples and blues; tapestries and paintings and miniatures in all the eastern styles, and all of these things would be sold to King's Landing first, then Westeros." He caught their eyes with his. "All that coin would be taxable by the Crown instead of being sent into the pockets of foreign magisters, and those who'd think to gouge us on prices will find their stranglehold shaken."

"A compelling argument, and I admire your ambitiousness," Baratheon said, "but all ambitions require gold. If you recall, the Iron Throne had to help finance your new castle's construction less than a year ago."

"It won't be a problem," Lelouch said. The sack of Lys had left him comfortably well-off even after his debts to Zoutos and the Iron Bank both were paid off in full. "I will arrange for a new line of credit from the Iron Bank if needed."

Baratheon nodded. "The charter would have to be worded carefully."

"Indeed," Jaehaerys said. "I would not see Rhaella impoverished. The charter will be her dowry, but you will set aside a portion of the revenue for her and her children in perpetuity."

**[Center]-ZeroRequiem-[/Center]**

A city of tents had been raised near the King's Gate to host all the men-at-arms and soldiery that could not afford to rent a room in King's Landing. Long rows of silken pennants waved in the wind, and the many knights in polished steel and gilded spurs walked about. There was feasting and fucking, and all that was left was some fighting to make it a proper tourney.

So of course, that's exactly what the king provided.

A row of pavilions was being raised along the Blackwater Rush, with a knight's shield and sigil hung before each door. A large arena was being cleared for the grand melee, while targets were set up at varying distances for the archery contest.

The Velaryons rode past it all, with Father leading them on upstream to where an old longship laden with hay and oil awaited. He'd traded for it with Quellon using a cog captured from Old Mother.

Besides Father, Corwyn rode in bright plate armor, his surcoat embellished with his personal sigil: the lance and longsword crossed over a silver seahorse. His heavy cloak looked like an approaching tidal wave with all its deep blue and white swirls aflutter behind him. Lelouch took up the rear, wearing a tunic striped silver and aquamarine. He looked almost out of place with Corwyn and Donnall—his rondels of sand-orange shells gleaming as it caught sunlight—dressed for play-war with the lance and sword respectively.

Kiren was red-eyed, but put on a smile for their sakes. "Afraid you'll look bad in front of the princess?" she asked.

"My hand is still injured," Lelouch said, showing her his bandages.

"It hasn't stopped you from signing up for the archery competition," Kiren said. "I know we've never really _attended _a tourney, but you realize only the winner of the tilts gets to crown a queen of love and beauty?"

"I prefer playing to my strengths," Lelouch said. The best jousters in all the Seven Kingdoms were sure to join—men like Lord Leyton Hightower and his uncle the White Bull, several knights and bannermen to House Arryn while their lord remained injured, Sers Tristifer of Tarth, Rodrick Cassel, and Oswell Whent to name a few. Sometimes, the only winning move was not to play. "I've plenty of glory already."

"Princess Rhaella will be crushed to know you won't even fight for her crown, and that you're happy to rest on your laurels," Kiren chided. "Not very knightly of you. You ought to ask for her favor at least."

"Like you said, there's not much point if I'm not joining the tilts myself." Lelouch said.

Her nails dug into his arm, eliciting a wince. "There _is_ a point. It's to show everyone else who she favors, in case they haven't gotten the message yet. It's best to smother whatever lingering doubts they have before your betrothal is announced." She sighed loudly. "Seven preserve me, I should hope you're more proactive in finding me a good husband, or I'll die a maid."

Lelouch shifted uneasily on Seasmoke's back. _It should be Uncle Adamm finding Kiren a husband, not me_.

"_I'll do whatever it takes to bring Uncle Adamm back." _He had promised her, hadn't he? Then why had he returned with more of her kin dead instead of—

"Stop that," Kiren said, tearing her gaze away from him. "Stop that right _now_."

"I haven't done anything."

"You're thinking it," she said, wiping her eyes with the blue sleeves of her tunic. "I grew up with you, Lelouch. I can read your moods like a book."

"I could have saved him," Lelouch said. "When Lashare—"

"Don't," Kiren interjected sharply.

"I got your Uncle Dylar killed," Lelouch said instead.

She crossed her arms, glaring at him. "You think entirely too highly of yourself."

Lelouch blinked. "What?"

"Not every bad thing that happens is your fault," Kiren said. "This war with Blackfyre would have happened whether or not my father was taken at Myr. My uncle would have fought for House Targaryen, and there's every chance he would have died in some other battle too."

"I promised to bring him back," he said in a low voice.

"I made you promise there would be no peace," Kiren answered, looking up at the blue spring sky and the white seagulls flying overhead. "What ifs and should haves... there's no sense to that sort of talk. What's happened, happened. All we can do now is move on."

They arrived at a spot along the Blackwater where the waters did not eagerly rush out to sea. The longship carried a spear, a folded sail, and the boiled leather armor Uncle Adamm preferred at sea. The weight of the ship was heavy in Lelouch's hands, though Corwyn, Father, and Donnall all shared the load with him. They set down the boat on the banks of the Blackwater before the eyes of their lords, captains, and seamen.

The gentle current stole it away, and a piece of Lelouch with it.

Father handed him a bow, and Ser Beren Bryne stepped forward with a torch to light the tip of his arrow. Lelouch breathed out, steadying his shaking hands.

"_Control your breathing," Uncle Adamm whispered in his ear. "You need to move with the wind and waves, not fight them." _

His eyes stung as he let loose the shaft. Only a spark of the flame it carried survived the winds, but a spark was enough to light Uncle's pyre, burning everything but his body in a bout of orange flames. Lelouch did not know how long they stood there, but it was not long enough. The last flame flickered, then died, and the boat passed from sight.

When it was time to go, Father rested a comforting hand on his shoulder, and led him away.

_All we can do for now is move on, _Lelouch repeated to himself.


	29. Interlude - Sweet

**Chapter 29: Interlude - Sweet**

Silk pennants waved overhead; a pride of lions racing with the wind; direwolves, stags, falcons of Arryn, and sigils of every color and thing fluttering.

The knights sat proud and tall upon their saddles, their armor made resplendent by the sunlow. Their horses were dressed in fine barding—white for Ser Barristan Selmy, and a smoky grey for Ser Brynden Tully. Both men were strong, lean, and graceful as they bowed to her father, before bringing their horses to opposite ends of the field. Ser Byrnden's cloak—the blue-and-red of House Tully—flowed behind him, fastened by a clasp of obsidian and gold in the shape of a black fish.

The Kingsguard wore Mother's favor, while Ser Brynden had tied a yellow and black silk scarf around his arm. Lances and helms both were lowered, and Rhaella watched with bated breath.

Then the warhorns sounded, low then loud, and the hooves sounded like a storm upon the plain. Their lances shattered with a thunderous crash, but neither man was unhorsed. Again and again and again they came at each other, the cheering louder each time until after thirteen broken lances, Ser Barristan the Bold triumphed over the Blackfish.

Her Bonnifer might have bested either of them, before he'd— Rhaella brought her hands together politely. The courtiers behind Rhaella stood and clapped for the fine knights on display. On the opposite stands, Myriah and her son Doran were cheering quite loudly among the Dornish lords, while Rhaella spied Joanna offering a more subdued clapping as she shared words with her cousin Genna. They seemed more interested in the women present rather than the men.

"If he accepted, he would've made a good Kingsguard," Father mumurred to Mother.

"It isn't a total waste. He'll make a fine addition still to your new order," Mother said. "And judging by whose favor he wears, you might get away giving the third white cloak to someone else… mayhaps that boy from Tarth?"

"Mayhaps," Father said, leaning into his high-backed redwood chair, "though we already have two stormlanders with Sers Barristan and Harlan, but no riverlanders."

"Our good-brother lost many men in the fighting," Mother said.

"He did, but he won no great victories, and there is a need to balance what few rewards we can dole out."

Rhaella frowned. "Well you've two white cloaks to give still, don't you?" she found herself asking.

Father considered her with sharp purple eyes—the healthiest thing about his appearance. "Only one in truth, my sweetling. Ser Reynard Reyne will be offered one at tonight's feast."

_Joanna won't like that,_ Rhaella thought. "Why him?" Rhaella asked. "You're already honoring House Lannister by inducting Ser Kevan into your order and marrying my brother to Joanna." How could those Reynes be trusted to guard their future queen if they were already her enemies?

"Houses Lannister and Reyne do not see eye to eye in all things," Father said, smiling kindly at her, "nor can I ignore House Reyne's service during the war."

"But there are many knights more deserving, surely?" Rhaella asked, knowing the names of those men by heart. "Sers Rodrick Cassel, Marthew Crakehall, and Tristifer Coldfalls are all unmarried, and acquitted themselves well in battle, or so I've heard."

"All fine warriors, and with them to guard Aerys and you, I would fear for nothing," Father said. "But the Kingsguard are meant to be more than our shields. They are a means of securing the armies of our most powerful bannermen too, and the Reynes are second only to the Lannisters in the westerlands."

Rhaella frowned. "But they are Lord Tytos' bannermen."

"There is little love," Father said, "between Casterly Rock and Castamere as of late, and the Reynes should not be underestimated. Lord Roger is well-liked in the west, and counts on many men as his friends, while freeriders, hedge knights, and sellswords would gladly fight for such a warrior. With time, he might raise a host of over eight thousand men. Should they take to opposite sides in a war, the westerlands would be neutered."

"The Reynes played a part in encircling the Golden Company and the last of the Band of Nine too," Mother added.

Father nodded. "If not for them, the westerland host might have fallen into disarray during the final moments of battle, and some of our enemies may have escaped us. Lelouch was wise to have them take the reins."

Rhaella bobbed her head and turned her gaze to the row of pavilions, combing through the new set of shields hung before each. It was the second day of tourneys, and she'd yet to see Lelouch's sigil show itself. Perhaps he was competing elsewhere? There were hundreds of lords and knights competing that they'd had to set up multiple fields to accommodate all the tilts taking place for the whole week.

"Lelouch has a baseborn cousin, does he not?" Mother asked. "I've seen him around a few times… half-Dornish I believe? Good with a sword too and you have no crownlanders on the Kingsguard yet."

"They'd have a princess, a fiefdom, and a white cloak from us," Father said, straightening his back into a kingly posture. "If any house in Westeros is deserving of all three, it would be the Velaryons. Yet, some might whisper that we favor them too highly once we entrust the younger son with the largest of the Stepstone islands, while the north, the riverlands, and the Vale cannot call any of theirs a Kingsguard knight."

Mother had a thoughtful look on her face as a knight with a plum on his shield lost to the new Lord of Stonehelm, Gulian Swann. Many were the lords who did not think they'd come into their inheritance so early, if at all—especially those sworn directly to Storm's End, Highgarden, Riverrun, and the Iron Throne.

"You're thinking of offering Ser Rodrik wardenship over Dustspear, aren't you?" Mother asked.

"Not to House Martell?" Rhaella asked with surprise. "Princess Myriah tells me Dorne has long laid claim to that island."

"Her second son will become Lord of Serpentholm in time, and a Yronwood will be the guardian of Guardian isle for saving your brother's life," Father said. "But I would not give the Dornish, or any other region for that matter, three islands." He turned to Mother. "I am indeed considering him. The Starks have thinned of late, and do not have a spare cousin to grant a lordship to. Among the northmen, Ser Rodrik distinguished himself the most for his part in saving Aerys, but I worry he will fit in poorly in the south."

"Marry him to a Manderly then. Lord Manderly has a beloved niece—Donella," Mother said. "They follow the Seven, and are closest among the northerners to us. Their fleet and gold would both be a boon to him too as he establishes himself."

Father nodded as an Oakheart and Waynwood knight bowed to him. "An excellent idea."

"We could even do the same thing for the Freys," Mother said.

"The Freys accomplished little and less in the war, and did not provide that much men," Father said with a frown.

"His sons by his second wife—a Swann girl—fought ably enough. They stand to inherit nothing when he dies… have him marry one of them to Lord Gulian's sisters to reaffirm those ties, present it as honoring the sacrifices of the riverlands and stormlands both, then bleed his coffers dry," Mother said. "So as to not insult the other great houses and heroes, give them the poorest and smallest of the islands: Larazor's Rock."

As the second day's tilts came to end that afternoon, Ser Barristan's white enameled scales remained untarnished by dirt or defeat.

With the fall of night came feasting, and it was a boisterous affair with sweet music, and a spicy snake dish served on skewers.

"It goes well with the sour Dornish red," Myriah said as Rhaella coughed, feeling her face heating up. "Here."

Rhaella took a generous sip from the goblet she offered. "Thank you," she said. "I don't know what I'd do once you return to Sunspear." A beautiful woman in her thirties, Myriah was worldliest and most well-travelled among her friends.

"You'll be fine, I'm sure," Myriah said, gracing her with a smile that made her large dark eyes pop. "Spending a year at Driftmark before you marry will be a good experience for you. There is more to the world than the Red Keep and King's Landing, and Lelouch has made quite the effort bringing people from Essos to his new Spicetown."

"I cannot help but worry," Rhaella said.

"It's normal to worry your first time away from home," Myriah said. "I cried the first night I left Sunspear, when my parents sent me to Starfall as a girl. All we can do is take these things on one step at a time, one foot in front the other. Lelouch is a kind man, and no harm will come to you while in his care."

_He could have lied to me, _Rhaella thought, her eyes drifting to Lelouch seated on a lower table, in deep conversation with Omorfia Ayas. Many already whispered Cici was his lover. It would be so like Lelouch to make her think she was the only one who knew, but that didn't mean he was lying.

He could have lied, and he was certainly capable of it, but in that moment he'd confessed to her, Lelouch seemed… vulnerable, like a man baring his heart, fully expecting not to be believed.

Only time would tell the truth, she supposed.

Rhaella shook her head. "Are you watching the grand melee tomorrow, or the next round of the tilts?" Rhaella asked.

"The melee of course!" Myriah dipped her head towards Lelouch's table. "I would not miss it after hearing Donnall Waters is competing. He has caught the eye of some of my lords."

Rhaella frowned, turning to face her. "Why? What is a bastard from Driftmark to them?"

"He is half-Dornish by birth," Myriah said, "and my people take great pride in seeing our natural sons and daughters rising to great heights."

The Dornish always _were _strangely unashamed of bastards and paramours. "Speaking of sons, I see yours is here," she said.

Doran was seated further up the table between Aerys and the fair-skinned Prince Consort Manrel Nymeros Martell, brother to the Lord of Kingsgrave. He was three and ten, and shared Myriah's lovely olive complexion and slender build, but inherited the thick black hair of his Stony Dornishman father.

"Doran's grown so much since I last saw him," Myriah said, pleased as a peacock, "and handsome too!"

_Mothers_, Rhaella thought ruefully. Doran was easy enough on the eyes, she supposed, but hardly comparable to her brother. Would she be the same when she had a son of her own? "He squires for Lord Gargalen, doesn't he?"

"That's right," Myriah said, "but I fear not for much longer."

Rhaella raised a brow questioningly.

"Like my brother, the Dornish wanderlust is strong in him," Myriah said. "He yearns to see the sights of Essos, and the ancient lands of the Rhoynar."

"Now does not seem the best time for such foreign adventures," Rhaella said. Volantis had seized more and more land with each Valyrian victory during the Rhoynish Wars, and while a peace had been signed with them, they were not likely to see Westeros as a dear friend. As for the other Free Cities like Norvos and Qohor, he would be in even greater danger visiting those places.

"I've told him as much, but boys will be boys," Myriah said. "Mayhaps I'll arrange something for him in King's Landing? It might temper his wanderlust for the moment."

"My father speaks of needing a new Lord Commander for the City Watch," Rhaella said. "If Lord Gargalen proves able, perhaps something there could be arranged?"

"He'll teach them discipline if nothing else," Myriah said, sipping at her wine. "Thank you for the suggestion. I'll ask the king if he's amenable when he's free."

From the corner of her eyes, Rhaella spotted Father sharing words with her brother. No doubt explaining his choices in the Stepstones. "I spoke to Father earlier, and he said he was giving Dorne two islands, but not Dustspear."

"That doesn't surprise me," Myriah said.

Rhaella blinked. "Really?"

"He means to keep the Stepstones as a unified region, and perhaps fears placing a Dornishman in charge of Dustspear might invite secession from whichever Lord Paramount he appoints in the end," Myriah said.

"You think he will raise a Lord Paramount?" Rhaella asked. Father had made no mention of that so far...

"Eventually, yes," Myriah said. "The Stepstones are too far from King's Landing that every dispute can be settled by coming before the Iron Throne, and there will be plenty of those with how he's distributing those lands. If not a Lord Paramount, then he ought to let those new lords swear fealty to Sunspear or Storm's End, but there has been no talk of such things."

It made a certain amount of sense, but… "Would quarrelsome bannermen not leave the Lord Paramount of the Stepstones weakened?"

Myriah smiled wryly. "I suspect that's his intent, yes. It's a fine balance, empowering the Stepstone lords enough that they can hold the islands for the Iron Throne, but not so much that they might think to defy the Iron Throne. If the lords all have conflicting loyalties, they'll not be eager to back their Lord Paramount in some foolhardy rebellion."

"The thought of being passed over does not anger you?" Rhaella asked.

"It would take a vast fortune to properly fortify those islands, and more people than Dorne can spare to populate them. I would not refuse if I were offered dominion over the Stepstones, but I am not blind to the dangers of doing so."

There was a lull in the feast when her father stood to address the lords. He spoke in some length of House Reyne's role during the War of the Ninepenny Kings, how they'd helped ably lead the westerland host during Naqes and the Battle of Three Armies. Reynard Reyne was offered the white cloak, and his acceptance was a foregone conclusion. Father would not have made a public show if he was not sure the man would accept.

The room was filled with cheers, but from Joanna, there was only chillingly polite applause.

**-ZeroRequiem-**

By the fourth day, there remained a hundred and twenty-eight knights left competing to crown a queen of love and beauty… or to be more accurate, the prize of forty thousand dragons. High lords, true knights, and brave champions from all the Seven Kingdoms were all that remained now. Her brother continued to bring Joanna's red favor forward in the tilts, and Lelouch continued to elude her save at the feasts. The only man from Driftmark who seemed to have survived elimination was Ser Beren Bryne, a minor lord's second son.

Even now, while the Ironborn and Redwyne ships maneuvered against each other on the banks of the Blackwater beneath the hot spring sun, Lelouch was not besides her explaining what she was watching.

Joanna raised her hand, and a servant came scuttling over with four tall glasses of cooled sweet wine and a cluster of large, ripe grapes. As she handed one to Rhaella, she said, "This halt in the tilts is a blessing. I haven't spoken much to Aerys in the last three days since he's been so busy with the jousts at day and speaking with the king at night."

The betrothals would be announced at the end of the feast, Rhaella knew, and it was all but certain now.

"Have you any plans with him for this afternoon?" Genna Lannister asked. Why she'd been invited by Joanna Rhaella understood, but not that of tall Malora Hightower. She had not known the Lannisters and Hightowers to be close friends—they were rivals if anything, with Lord Tymore a font of support for Uncle Ormund's faction.

"He wanted to visit the Dragonpit," Joanna said, "then I believe we'll be watching the archery competition."

"Is that the only event Lelouch is competing in?" Rhaella asked.

"I believe so," Joanna said. "He wanted to give his hand some time to heal, but he can't very well compete in the squire's tourney."

The squire's tourney was to be held on the morning of the seventh day, before the final jousts to decide the tourney champion. "My brothers Gartha and Baelor are entering that," said Malora, a far-eyed look on her face as she watched longships and dromonds dance their dance. "Corwyn too."

"So is my brother," Genna said. "Tygett was praised highly for slaying two men at Naqes and two more at the Battle of Three Armies. It's a shame he's too young to be knighted."

Her younger cousin Steffon too hadn't been knighted during the mass ceremony held after Naqes.

"It's only a matter of time," Joanna said.

Rhaella turned her eyes back to the mock sea battle. It would have to be one Lelouch commanded in surely, for the greatest stories came from the most unexpected victories. _Seafyre or Storm?_ she pondered. The key feature of Seafyre had been the wildfire ploy, while Storm had taken advantage of the weather—neither of which were practical to recreate. As for the more intricate maneuvering, she could not bring herself to remember what had occurred.

The princess cursed her own inattention to Pycelle's droning monologues.

"Harlaw's silver scythe, the Greyjoy kraken, and… a drowned man with fishes on green?" Genna asked, naming the sigils flying from the ships.

"House Sunderly," Rhaella said. It had been one of the houses from the Iron Islands Father had mentioned.

"Redwyne and Tyrell too," Joanna said. "Do you suppose the king means to induct them all into his new order like he did Kevan?"

"It would make sense," Malora said. "Father has spoken of betrothing me to a Redwyne or Luthor Tyrell—the son of the late Ser Moryn."

"Three islands for the Ironborn though?" Joanna mused. "The Ironborn have benefitted much from their friendship with Lelouch."

Rhaella shook her head. "No, Father wouldn't grant any region more than two islands. At least one of the Ironborn won't be getting one."

"Lord Quellon's children are all by a Sunderly woman," Malora said.

Genna popped a juicy grape into her mouth, chewed, and swallowed. "Perhaps a Sunderly regent for one of Lord Quellon's children? They're all still too young to rule in their own right."

"Greyjoy, Harlaw, Redwyne, and Tyrell then," Joanna said, opening her silken fan from the far east.

"I dread to think of what a terror the Ironborn will become," Genna said, "if allowed to establish too strong a presence on the narrow sea."

"My father isn't pleased with it either," Malora said, brushing away a stray blonde hair from her eye. "It's a threat to Oldtown's eastern trade routes, and our fleet does not compare to the Arbor's."

"With any luck, they'll be given the smaller islands—Larazor's Rock or Tor." Genna paused. "Whoever comes to rule that island really ought to change the name. There's a castle in Dorne called that as well I believe."

Joanna bobbed her head in agreement. "Well, enough about this. Have any of you spoken to Kiren Velaryon? What's she like?"

"Lelouch's cousin?" Rhaella asked. Was Joanna worried of her stealing Aerys away? Lord Jaron had tried it after Seafyre, but it hadn't borne fruit. "I've only shared a passing word with her."

Malora and Genna shook their heads.

"That's a shame," Joanna said. "I suppose I'll just have to talk to her myself then. Mayhaps I'll invite her to see the new sept?"

"Which one?" Malora asked. "The Sept of Many Colors or the Sept of Spring?"

Those septs had not yet been built, but the High Septon had commissioned a scale model of each built to show the highborn of Westeros. It would be the first time ones of such size would be built in Tyrosh and Lys respectively.

"The Tyroshi one," Joanna said. "Lelouch had a larger hand in getting that one to be built, didn't he? Convinced the Archon of Tyrosh to pay for it all too."

"I didn't think Lelouch was so devout," Rhaella said. He'd never spoken much about the Faith or the gods in private conversation, not like Bonnifer did. The one time she could recall, when they'd first met, the words seemed more like a curse spat from Lelouch's lips.

"He did help start the Sacred Struggle, though I don't think he's the pious sort exactly," Joanna said, shutting her fan and setting it aside.

"Really?" Rhaella asked, leaning forward in interest. "Why do you think he lead the Sacred Struggle then, if not for piety?"

Genna held a grape between her fingers. "I think he did it to increase his stock with the High Septon," she said, before popping the grape into her mouth.

"Isn't he already well-liked by the Faith?" Rhaella asked.

"Very much so," Malora said. "The only reason he hasn't been declared a Blessed is because he isn't dead. Abolishing slavery in three Free Cities, getting two grand septs built, leading the Sacred Struggle, even giving up a small fortune to feed the newly freed… the only thing left for him to do now is to reinstate the Warrior's Sons and the Poor Fellows."

"Well," Genna said, "whatever he plans for Essos, it seems the Faith will play a major part in it."

"Far less likely to scare the other Free Cities if the flags flown from Tyrosh to Lys bear the seven-pointed star instead of the seahorse," Joanna added. "As for the slaves, he's brought many of them to Driftmark under the guise of charity, but I wouldn't be surprised if many of them ended up creating industries with House Velaryon's backing. It's a clever ploy that will yield his house gold in the coming years."

"Do none of you think he did all those things not for personal gain, but out of genuine faith?" Rhaella asked.

Joanna frowned. "Well, of course not—not that it's a mark against him, he's not some heathen. It's just his personal piety—not the mummery he puts on for court—isn't exactly a match for Baelor the Blessed, is it? I don't think I've ever heard him go to a sept to pray before daybreak, his vigil aside."

"Everything he does has been to improve his house's standing," Genna said, admiration bleeding into her voice.

Power for power's sake… was that the sum of Lelouch Velaryon?

**-ZeroRequiem-**

It was more happenstance than anything else that found her seated next to Omorfia. Joanna and Aerys had yet to return from the Dragonpit when Rhaella arrived too early for the archery competition. The targets had just been set up, and it would be another half-hour before the ten thousand dragons could be fought over.

The Myrish girl remained exotic and sensual as ever in a daring dress of silk and lace that showed altogether too much leg. "Your Grace, it's good to see you again," Omorfia said.

"I have a question for you, if you don't mind," Rhaella said.

"Of course, Your Grace—"

"Call me Rhaella."

Omorfia nodded. "I'd be happy to be of assistance to you, Princess Rhaella."

"Where is Cici now?" Rhaella asked. She hadn't seen the green-haired woman in King's Landing, not that Lelouch was fool enough to bring her to an assembly of lords like this, but it could be she was hiding somewhere in the city, or in Driftmark.

"In Myr," Omorfia answered, "with my grandfather and that little boy of hers."

"She has a son?" _A bastard? _Rhaella's throat dried.

Omorfia laughed. "Oh, not at all, Your Grace. Varys and Serra are orphaned children she found in Lys. She took a liking to them, and brought them to Driftmark with her. They're much too old to be her children by Lelouch at least."

Rhaella swallowed. "What is Cici doing in Myr?" Had she been sent away?

"Keeping an eye on things," Omorfia said, shifting in her seat uncomfortably. "Myr is still reeling from the treacherous poisoning of Magister Glossos, and Lelouch needed someone he could trust in the city. She'll be there for a few months at least."

"What?" Rhaella asked, face twisting into a befuddled one. Her father kept counsel with Mother in many things, but he would never send her to a foreign city and act on her own volition...

"It is odd, I admit. Such freedoms are often reserved only for highborn women in Essos," Omorfia said. "Lelouch places great trust in Cici to act on his behalf, and I suppose it makes some sense. She has as much reason to despise slavery as he does."

"She was a slave?"

"When they first met, yes," Omorfia said, "though he went to great lengths trying to free her from the beginning. I suspect he only stayed in Myr for so long because of her."

There was no benefit for Lelouch Velaryon to sacrifice so much for a slave. "Have you heard of the grand septs being built in Tyrosh and Lys?" Rhaella asked. When Omorfia nodded, she continued, "Why is it you think Lelouch pushed for them?"

"Your Faith of the Seven is one of the few religions that abhors slavery in all its forms," Omorfia said. "Establishing it as the dominant faith will forever put an end to the practice."

"You think he did it to end slavery?" Rhaella asked.

"Not at first. It started off as theater," Omorfia said, "but my grandfather is convinced something changed of late. Lelouch went to some length making sure the Lyseni would not enslave their own people after the magisters were all killed. That he did not have to do."

For his uncle's ignoble capture, Lelouch brought fire and blood to the Three Daughters for over a year, until Liomond Lashare was finally defeated. He was a man who could hold a grudge… but also one that was willing to go great lengths for his family, for those he loved and cherished.

Slavery was abhorrent, so the septons preached, but how many lords went to the same lengths Lelouch did to see those people freed? How many lords would have given up a fortune, housing freed men and small folk, when it could not be paid off without years of labor? When those same men and women were _free_ to leave?

_Did he do all of it for Cici? _Rhaella couldn't help but think… _What would Lelouch do if he felt that way about me? _

When Lelouch arrived with a tall bow of white wood, he did not head for the targets immediately. Instead, he caught her eye, approached, and asked for her favor.

She gave it to him, and he swept aside all who stood in his way with ease.


	30. Interlude - Steel

**Chapter 30: Interlude - Steel**

The Bastard of Driftmark found the Princess of Dorne in her pavilion, reclined on her loveseat with sandsilk pillows. The captain of Prince Doran's guard, Ser Gascoyne, stood behind her in heavily enameled platemail, inlaid with burnished, sandy copper. Gascoyne nodded to them, the shells of his rondels gleaming as it caught light.

Myriah Nymeros Martell smiled. "Lord Lelouch, _Ser_ Donnall," —Donnall felt a flush of warmth course through his chest— "please make yourselves comfortable."

"Thank you for having us, Princess Myriah," Lelouch said, seating himself across her.

Donnall remained standing behind him, facing off against Ser Gascoyne Shells.

"Congratulations are in order," Myriah said, looking right at Donnall.

"I didn't even win the melee," Donnall said.

"Making it to the final three is still a fine showing, more than worthy of a knighthood," Lelouch said. "In truth, I should have done that after the Battle of Three Armies, but there was always too little time and too much to do. This is merely what you're owed for valiant service."

He could still feel the sword's heavy taps on his shoulders; his ears still rang from the cheers of the crowd. "I am ever your sword," Donnall said. _And no one else's._

"Your loyalty to family is commendable," Ser Gascoyne said.

"Would you like something to drink?" Myriah asked. A servant garbed in silks that showed plenty of skin set down a few bottles of wine, alongside a curious orange drink topped with mint and ice.

"I'm not familiar with this drink," Lelouch said, accepting a glass and letting its scent waft in the air.

"Tamarindo, a traditional Rhoynish beverage," Myriah said. "It sustained Nymeria when she sailed from Sothoryos to Dorne."

Lelouch took a sip, savoring the flavor, before setting down his cup. "Sweet and sour, an interesting taste," he said, turning his eyes to the minor event of the day—a mummer's show portraying an inaccurate and exaggerated sword fight between Prince Aerys and Maelys Blackfyre. "Will you be returning to Sunspear when Princess Rhaella departs?"

"After the King's Tourney ends. I've been gone from home for far too long," Myriah said. "I miss my Elia and Oberyn dearly."

"We would invite you to join us down in Dorne, Nephew mine," Gascoyne said to Donnall with a small smile. "My sister Dorea would never forgive me if I didn't extend you an offer."

Donnall shifted his weight between his feet. "This is all on short notice."

"Sleep on it at least," Gascoyne said. "We've a few more days here."

"You'd be welcome at Sunspear at a later time, if that's more to your liking," Myriah added.

"Thank you for the offer," Donnall said, casting his gaze towards the outside where the mummers were replaced by preening coursers and smaller sand steeds. "I'll give it some thought."

There was a soft rustling of silk on silk, and when Donnall looked again, Princess Myriah had pushed herself into an upright position, and pointed at a slender boy making a lap before the raucous Dornish. "Do you know my son and heir, Doran?"

"I haven't had the pleasure of being formally introduced, but Prince Lewyn says he's a fine horseman."

"The finest," Myriah said. "He's a young man, with a young man's wanderlust. Normally, we'd send him to Essos, but that's become a dangerous proposition of late."

"I might have heard something about that," Lelouch japed, turning to face her once more with a hint of a smile. His back was a little straighter, eyes a little sharper. Anyone else would have missed it, but Donnall had grown up with Lelouch. "He squires for Lord Gargalen, does he not?"

"You're well-informed," Myriah said.

Lelouch steepled his fingers. "The gold cloaks are in dire need of a new Lord Commander who will discipline them, and soon the Iron Throne must send a delegate to represent their interests before the Greater Assembly of Lys."

"The Lyseni have lovely tapestries," Myriah said, faint amusement making her dark eyes sparkle, "but after you stripped that city clean during the Slave Spring, I'm not certain there's much left to quench my son's thirst."

_King's Landing would be closer too, and much easier for her to visit, _Donnall thought. No doubt that played some part in Princess Myriah's preference.

"Rebuilding will take time," Lelouch said with a nod.

"Has His Grace made it known who he wishes to appoint?" Myriah asked.

Lelouch stole a glance at Donnall. "Other matters have taken up his attention in the meantime, such as the upcoming summit and to whom the last white cloak should be awarded. It may very well be left to Lord Neleus Royce."

The master of laws was now sworn to Ronnel Arryn, who was on the best of days indifferent to Lelouch as far as Donnall knew. Still, with his injuries and his shaky hold on power, the Lord of the Vale had to attend to his succession.

"He's no friend of yours," Myriah said. "If I recall correctly, he questioned your ability at sea at court."

"It was prudent of him to do so. I had no great victories to my name yet, at that time," Lelouch said. "And it is partially thanks to him that I am now known as the Seafyre. He was a hasty appointment by King Jaehaerys, and with the death of Lord Arryn, he'll find few friends from the Vale lingering in King's Landing. We can work with him, or in spite of him."

"I would be grateful for your help, Lord Lelouch," Myriah said.

Lelouch savored his drink, swallowed, and tilted his head towards the hanging Lyseni tapestry. "Dorne needs friends beyond Dorne, and I've not forgotten. Still, I would hope to turn the City Watch into more than what it currently is, sorry lot that they are."

"You'll find Lord Gargalen a disciplined man, and willing to see things through."

"Good," Lelouch said, "but there are dangers to this city I'm keen to contain. We cannot afford another Summerhall."

"You speak of wildfire?" Myriah asked.

Lelouch nodded. "The wisdoms need certain reagents to make that fickle substance, ingredients they can only obtain from outside."

_And the gold cloaks controlled the gates, and what was allowed inside the city, _Donnall thought. _He has not forgiven or forgotten the sins against Alarra._

Myriah considered Lelouch's words. "If His Grace orders it though…"

"_If_ the king commands wildfire be made, there is little we can do," Lelouch said. "But in the absence of a royal edict, we need not give the alchemists a free hand. They've shown themselves irresponsible when left to their own devices. It is time they are reined in."

"I see no reason why that can't be arranged," Myriah said, lifting her goblet up in toast. "To friends."

"To Dorne," Lelouch said, before knocking back his drink.

They stayed until the end of the race, which Doran won by a mile. His lithe form helped with that, for if it were a contest in armor, a sand steed would fare poorly against a destrier.

"You should go with them," Lelouch said as they left the pavilion.

"My place is by your side," Donnall said.

"We won't be in another war anytime soon. Think it through," Lelouch said, seeming almost sad. "No child should be ripped away from their mother, and you've never even met yours."

"Fathers shouldn't sire bastards either, so the High Septon preaches," Donnall said. Bastards were born from lust and lies, Lady Eunice liked to say; their blood was tainted and treacherous. Why else would Daemon Blackfyre think to steal a crown otherwise? Donnall meant to prove them wrong, and had vowed to be his trueborn cousin's sword against any and all things. "Lady Eunice—"

"Will you never cease trying to earn her affection?" Lelouch asked.

"Much as she hated me, she raised me, even as my father sailed and wenched across Essos," Donnall said quietly. "I am not an ingrate."

Lelouch frowned. "I do not say this to hurt you, but… you will never find a mother in Aunt Eunice. You are your father's failings to her."

It stung to hear those words, though Donnall had known them to be true for years now. "I know."

"Sleep on it at least," Lelouch said. "You've lost your father, but now you might know your mother. You're family to me, but I cannot fill that void in your heart where Lady Dorea ought to be."

_How can she be family if I've never even met her? _Donnall thought. "You seem quite insistent I meet her."

"You have questions; all children do. Meeting her will let you put some of them to rest," Lelouch said, a distant look crossing his face, like he was in another world altogether. "It's what I would do in your position. You have your future to think of too now. You acquitted yourself admirably during the war, and there are opportunities available to you that weren't otherwise. Even the white cloak you've dreamed of since we were children is not beyond your reach now."

_Is there any king worthier than you? _Donnall thought. "I've changed my mind since."

Lelouch paused in his stride to raise a brow at him. "Are you sure?"

"I'm certain," he said, and the weight of debt and duty both felt lighter on his shoulders.

**-ZeroRequiem-**

"Out," Tywin ordered.

He waited for the last servant to leave and for the door to slam shut, before reaching for the leather cup. It was lined with sheepskin on the inside to make it more comfortable to his tender stump of a leg. The maesters had taken a knife to just below his left knee to save his life.

Tywin's leg throbbed, and when he closed his eyes, he could feel that missing part of his leg crushed under the weight of that elephant's foot again. It was all in his head, he knew, but that did not make the pain any more tolerable.

With a belabored breath, Tywin fitted the cup over his stump. It fit well—but that did not stop Tywin from gritting his teeth as a coal-hot lance stabbed him.

"_It will dull with time," _Grandmaester Pycelle had said.

How much longer? It had been eight whole weeks since he'd lost his leg, and each day that passed, his father ran the Lannister legacy further aground.

Tywin's hands pressed tightly against the wall as he stood on his good leg, before slowly putting more weight on his new leg crafted from pine. He had asked for gilded steel, but the maesters said it would hamper his growth. The first step he took made him stumble, but he was a Lannister, damn it all!

Tywin forced himself to stand, much as his leg screamed in protest.

He could not, _would_ _not _fail, now when the House of Lannister rested on his shoulders. Who else was there?

Kevan would soon be named the Knight of Scarwood, and his new role would keep him from coming home. For all his prowess, Tygett was not yet a man, and the even younger Gerion was too quick to laugh, much like their father. Genna and Joanna would each have a part to play, but they were women. It was not their place to take up the sword.

So it fell to him, as he'd always known it would, only Tywin had never expected the gods to be so cruel. To leave him with but one leg, subject to the mockery of other men… better he had died at the Battle of Three Armies. _Then it would be Kevan facing the nadir of our fortunes, instead of a broken thing like me,_ Tywin thought bitterly. For a cripple to bear the burdens of their house, even the gods must be laughing at them.

Tywin staggered towards the door, taking a deep breath as he rested one hand on the door handle. Then, he entered the private audience chamber adjacent to his bedchamber.

His sister and cousin were already seated and waiting, a pitcher of water with sage soaking in it between them. Genna wore a low-cut dress of red satin and blue velvet, with Myrish lace just below the bodice to draw one's eyes to it, and Joanna was dressed in a fine gowl of red silk, the black pearls sewn into the sleeves rattling whenever her arms moved.

_Targaryen colors,_ Tywin thought with a pang of regret. He quashed the feeling—a royal marriage would do wonders for House Lannister's position. The king would not announce the twin betrothals of his children til the end of the festivities, but it was no secret who he had in mind for them.

"We know who the third Kingsguard appointee will be," Joanna said as Tywin sat down.

"Who?" he asked through gritted teeth, his leg throbbing from the brief exertion. _Pathetic._

"Oswell Whent," answered Genna with a smirk.

The man was a formidable warrior, having felled the Butcher, Tomas Santagar, and half a dozen men in the Battle of Three Armies. He'd also been one of Princess Rhaella's suitors, banking on his skill at arms to earn her favor, though his swift defeat at the hands of Baelor Hightower had put an end to that.

"The Blackfish wore a lady's favor during the tilts—yellow and black, Whent colors," Tywin recalled. "Oswell's sister?"

"Minisa," Genna said.

"That's good," Tywin said. He was ill at ease leaving Joanna to champion their cause while Reyne wore a white cloak. He couldn't trust the other members of the Kingsguards, but soon the Whents would be distant kin to them through the Tully brothers. "Hoster was the right choice then."

"He'll be Lord Paramount soon enough, I suppose," Genna said. "Though we might come to regret this choice in years to come. Lelouch's star has only just begun to rise."

"Your efforts would've been wasted," Tywin said.

"I could have convinced him," Genna said, pouting.

Tywin snorted. "He might have dalliances with that foreign woman, but Lelouch knows the meaning of duty."

"He would have put his family's interests above his wants," Joanna added.

_Besides,_ Tywin thought, _there's every risk he would keep his whore around. That dishonor I will not abide by. _"I've received word from Maester Creylen. Jast and Falwell are at it again." It was a senseless dispute from before the war, and rather than seek a ruling from Casterly Rock the two fools had decided to settle the matter with a melee. Nine men dead, twenty-seven maimed, and still the fighting continued.

"The war just ended!" Genna said.

"We ought to be thankful for the respite the war provided," Joanna said. "It will only get worse by the time you return to Casterly Rock. Outlaws, broken men, and robber knights always plague the land after a war."

"That," Tywin said, "will be the first thing that must be rectified. Grandfather Alyn has promised to support me in rooting out the bandits, while Marthew Crakehall has been hard at work gathering men to my name."

If every peasant with a weapon in hand could get away with such crimes, how could they ever expect the westerlords to respect House Lannister's rule? There were many hedge knights whose employment ended with the war, and men who'd acquired a taste for violence. His future good-brother was proving himself useful now, having gathered five hundred men under his banner. Those same men might not have answered if a cripple led them on the field, but Marthew was a stout and broad-shouldered man. Tywin would borrow the strength of his body.

"After the outlaws are dealt with will come the hard part: reining in the lords," Tywin said. "The Farmans continue to build a navy of their own, while Lord Stackspear has hired mercenaries to collect ruinous taxes from his own people." In open defiance of Father's wishes, no less.

And then there was the score of private wars that had broken out among their vassals after the blatant murder of Ser Denys Marbrand, and Father's pardoning the Reynes over it. If even a loyal subject of Casterly Rock could not expect protection, _what_ _point _was there to listen to a Lord Paramount? No less than three landed knights nominally swearing fealty to Casterly Rock had sought the protection of the Tullys in recent years. Genna's marriage would see those knights returned and ensure a peaceful border, while the Crakehalls would ward against any Tyrell encroachment.

Those marriages would keep the other kingdoms at bay for some time, but it was not the end of it. If stability could not be restored, it would be the end of House Lannister.

Land, gold, and power were being fought over indiscriminately—a war of all against all, as the septons called it between their open rebukes against "the Lord of Misrule". Even the damned apprentices were rioting in Lannisport every few months.

"What about the Reynes?" Genna asked, sipping at her drink.

"They must be dealt with carefully," Tywin said, clenching his fists. He'd thought at first to bait the Reynes into rebellion by enforcing repayment of loans and taxes unlawfully withheld. While Father lived and refused to act, those actions would be unlawful in themselves and _resisted_—allowing him an excuse to take revenge.

Yet, with a man so close to the king now, the Reynes had the means to quickly petition for royal intervention. Tywin counted Aerys his closest friend, but Aerys was not yet the king and he could not be sure of what outcome such interference would result in.

_And though they might decide in our favor, the lords would not respect us. I would not have it be said that we owe our position to others._

"Acting against them directly now would be too risky," Tywin continued, "but letting them continue as is would also be a mistake."

The Reynes and Tarbecks had expanded their domains considerably, but more troubling were the building of roads, sponsoring of septs, and raising new keeps. They were carving out a kingdom within a kingdom, and were close to eclipsing House Lannister in strength. Tywin could count on some seventy-five hundred men who would fight on his behalf, while the Reynes were thought to have eight thousand men altogether once their friends were gathered and sellswords hired.

"You cannot act with one hand tied behind your back," Genna said. "Father must be confined and contained."

"His whore will keep him preoccupied," Tywin said. He'd abide by her presence for a while longer, but her days would be numbered. "As for the Reynes, we must chip away at their strength through subtler means. A chain is only as strong as its weakest link."

"We'll leave it to you then," Genna said.

"It will be some time before we can return to Casterly Rock," Joanna said.

Tywin jerked his head. They would be needed here to combat Reynard's silver tongue and manage their interests at court. "Other than Genna and your sister Lelia, who else will you be taking in as your ladies in waiting?" Joanna was the soon to be future queen and Lelia, Tywin knew, would soon be betrothed to Kevan. After all, his brother had been granted an island to rule over in part because of Uncle Jason's death. It only made sense.

"Malora Hightower, Kiren Velaryon..." Joanna continued to list names from the Reach, crownlands, and riverlands as candidates.

"You will make a great queen," Tywin blurted out. _You will make Aerys happy. _

Joanna blinked. "Thank you."

"This might be the last time we speak to each face to face," Tywin said.

"You weren't this solemn riding off to war," Joanna japed.

In many ways, this war would be harder than the last. "More is at stake," he said instead. "Take care of yourself, Joanna."

"Of course," she said, dazzling him with a smile and his heart ached.

Tywin forced himself to his feet. _The Lannisters will suffer mockery no longer, _he vowed. _And if even the gods think to laugh at us, then there will be no gods left in the end._

**-ZeroRequiem-**

The cheering crowd, the stomping of feet, the sound of shattered lances… it all sounded so _hollow_ to Steffon now.

_False glory,_ Steffon thought, as he wheeled his horse around.

"_You ought to use this tourney as an opportunity to get the measure of your competition," _Father had said. "_Corwyn Velaryon, Ryam Redwyne, and Erik Yronwood to name a few."_

With a sigh, Steffon dismounted, walking up to where Corwyn Velaryon had fallen in the dirt after they had gone through six bouts. "Well met," Steffon said honestly, offering him a hand. The older boy was well-trained, that he could not deny.

"Best of luck in the finals tomorrow, Lord Steffon," Corwyn said as Steffon pulled him up. A lady's favor knotted round his arm: grey and crowned with flames.

"I'll do my best," Steffon said. With this, he would advance to the finals of the Squire's Tourney against Tywin's younger brother, Tygett. A formidable warrior who hadn't been knighted due to age instead of deeds.

As they walked off of the lists, the crowd chanted, "Steffon! Steffon! STEFFON!"

For a moment, he was tempted to bask in it, before his better sense caught up to him. _False glory_, Steffon repeated to himself. He could not shake the images from his head of what the truth looked like: victory snatched from the jaws of defeat against all odds and doubts, and the fanatical loyalty that inspired. Again and again and again he was made to bear witness—Bloodstone, Naqes, Tyrosh, Lys…

_How could a tourney for boys compare to such feats? _Steffon thought bitterly.

A troupe of singers took the field, warbling out songs Steffon did not recognize. There were a few hours to kill before the axe-throwing contest began, so he set out for the royal box where Aerys would be—only to find Lelouch Velaryon already there, sharing words with his cousin.

Steffon clenched his fists, and turned away, seeking out his father.

Lelouch had been naught but the minor lordling of a house past its prime, while Steffon was Aerys' cousin and closest friend. A little over a year… that was how long it took for Lelouch to supplant him. Now, the way Aerys seemed to hang onto every word Lelouch said—one would think he was a prophet!

Even Tywin, who Steffon thought would have scorned befriending a lesser lord, had warmed up to him. They spoke constantly, scheming all sorts of things together during the war. Rhaella too seemed smitten with her future husband, his boorish attitude towards her when they first met forgotten.

Everywhere Steffon looked, Lelouch had somehow wormed his way into people's affections.

He found his father speaking with an aged man in plain brown robes.

"Ah Steffon," Father said, interrupting himself mid-sentence. "Well done out there."

He nodded. "I've heard Corwyn Velaryon will be knighted soon," Steffon said with a hint of jealousy. Aerys and Tywin both had already earned their spurs, and it _stung _that despite his best efforts, he hadn't been deemed worthy of that honor during the war.

"Most likely," Father said, "though for good reason."

"He's only a year older than I am," Steffon said.

A sigh left Father's lips. "It's not a matter of age or deeds. There's more at play here than you know." He turned to the old man once more. "It will take a while for the maesters to train the new ravens, but once they're ready, it should make communication with Lys and Tyrosh much quicker."

"That's good to hear, Lord Hand," the man said. "My septons are eager to preach the good word to the Essosi, and I've heard the Archon of Tyrosh boast that the Sept of Many Colors will be one to rival Baelor's Sept."

_My septons?_ Steffon though, taking a long, hard look at the man's face. Without his crown, the High Septon looked like one of the smallfolk, and it didn't help that the robes he wore were always so plain and tattered, one would think the Faith had nothing left in their coffers.

"Mayhaps," Father said. "I'm personally more interested in seeing the Sept of Spring. If there's one upside to the Slave Spring, it's that it left plenty of space for us to build in Lys."

The High Septon tilted his head. "I've heard that a vote is being held. If it passes, the Greater Assembly will invite King Jaehaerys to station a permanent delegate in their city in the hopes of fostering closer ties between our two peoples."

_Voting_, Steffon thought derisively. _As if the smallfolk were capable of deciding on matters important to their state. _

"We expect the vote to pass without a problem," Father said.

"That is good to hear," the High Septon said. "Has the king decided on who to send?"

"Not yet, but rest assured you will be introduced as soon as it is decided. As part of his duties, the master of words will also ensure that your septons are treated with the dignity they deserve."

"My thanks, Lord Hand," he said, nodding. A kindly smile graced his face. "I believe your son might be getting impatient, so I shall leave the matter here."

"My door is open to you at any time, Your High Holiness," Father said.

Steffon waited for the High Septon to leave earshot, before saying, "Why can't I be knighted?"

"You are only four and ten. There's no need to rush these things."

_It took Lelouch Velaryon a year to replace me in Aerys' confidence. If I were knighted… mayhaps they'd see me as their equal again. _"If not now then when?" Steffon asked. "I must earn my spurs, and there won't be an abundance of wars anytime soon."

"We ought to be thankful for that," Father said. "The realm might not survive the butcher's bill of another war like the one we just won."

Steffon kept his father's gaze.

Father sighed. "Very well, I shall tell you a secret. You will have an opportunity soon enough. Aerys and Rhaella will be wed to their betrothed within a year's time. We expect leading men from Braavos to Volantis will be attending."

Steffon bit his lip, considering the implications of it. After a long while, he answered, "It's to double as a summit?"

"A Targaryen Summit," Father said, "which will decide the fate of the Stepstones."

"But we've already seized those islands. What more is there to speak of?" Steffon asked.

"We hold it for now, but if we're to keep it for long, we cannot fight all the Free Cities over them," Father said. "Better they come to accept our legitimate rule over these islands. But for that to happen, bargains must be struck. What are the Stepstones known for?"

"They're hives of scum and piracy," Steffon said. Everyone knew that. "We've to show the value of having the Stepstones be within our domain…. the pirates then?"

"Aye. Not all of them—those that fought with us will be given the opportunity to become landed knights sworn to the various members of the Order. The ones that refuse we will drive off," Father said. "The king has asked me to lead this campaign."

_In order to atone for our failures in the last war? _Steffon thought.

"Furthermore," Father continued, "it will be the Order who will be our principal commanders in this. Lelouch Velaryon will not be involved, beyond lending some men to his brother's cause."

"A chance to prove myself!" Steffon said.

Father nodded. "I thought to leave you in the care of Lord Estermont's nephew at Felstrong. If you acquit yourself well, you can earn your knighthood."

_I will make you proud, Father, _Steffon vowed. _I will not fail._


End file.
